Into The Fire
by notmanos
Summary: The past comes back to haunt both Logan and Angel: the search for a missing person makes Logan recall a part of his recent past he'd rather forget, while a new enemy targets Angel for a sinister purpose.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel & Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are mine - steal them and face unholy wrath._

_N.B.: Takes place shortly after "X2", and directly after "Nepenthe"._

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**Into The Fire**

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1**

Two weeks ago - Ecuador

The good thing about trying to find her was she made the job easy. All you had to do was follow the bodies.

This latest kill was quite fresh. A family living in a house that was little more than a hut; probably kindly peasant folk who thought they were helping out a lost foreign stranger. Only to have they necks broken, and their eyes gouged out. (And eaten? He never found the eyes, and there were rumors she did that.) She saved the kids for last: a five year old, a toddler, and an infant. She drained them all dry, but let them keep their eyes. She liked young blood, but not young eyes.

The demon bar was just inside a forest that the locals said was haunted. It wasn't, of course; it was just a story perpetuated to keep people away. It too was just a hut, a two room affair with a thatched roof and wicker furniture, an overhead fan pushing around stale air. The clientele looked up at him as he entered, smelling his Human blood, but growled as they smelled the magic on him. Like he'd enter a place like this - or go after a monster like her - without protection. He was confident, but not stupid.

She sat at a back table, wiping the mouth of a porcelain doll with a dirty napkin. As he approached her table she looked up, a wicked grin splitting her face. She was frightfully thin and pale, almost fragile looking, her long dark hair like a shadow cradling her head. But her eyes were alight with pure madness, the kind that made even fellow demons want to crawl under tables to avoid her. "You don't belong here," she said in a sing song voice, almost like a child.

"You're Drusilla, yes?" Milos asked, although he already knew the answer. She was said to look fragile, and be anything but. She was said to be beautiful, and madder than a shithouse rat, all of which made her spectacularly dangerous, even amongst her breed.

Her lips were the dark red of dried blood, and he was sure that's what it was, even though in this dim light you could mistake it for lipstick. There was a flush in her pale cheeks that suggested her recent kill. "Wicked, wicked man. You know."

"I do," he agreed, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. Even with the table separating them, and his magical wards in place, he didn't feel perfectly safe. And if she was like this, what could her sire have been like? "And I have an offer for you, Dru, if you'll hear me out."

She cocked her head, looking through him as if she was listening to a conversation in another room. But then she grinned, flashing bone white teeth, her empty eyes fixing on him once more. "You have a secret." She made an odd noise, the hum of an excited child, and whispered dramatically, "You want daddy."

She did have the gift of precognition. It was claimed, but she was so mad it was impossible to tell for sure. He was pretty sure now, though. "Your sire? Yes, I do."

"But they're singing for you."

There was no music anywhere. "Who?"

"All my dead birdies. Can't you hear them? They open their beaks, but no sound comes out at all. They're lonely."

Shithouse rat, all right. Was that her way of saying she knew he was dying? Perhaps. "They can wait. Where's your sire, Drusilla?"

She moved her doll to her lap, its face a pale, blank mimic of its owners, and she waved a finger at him like a scolding parent, clicking her tongue. "Just because you stink of shadows doesn't mean you get any presents."

Oh god, was he going to need an interpreter? He hadn't thought of that. "In exchange, I'll give you the address of an orphanage. A dangerously overcrowded orphanage run by the Catholic Church. Just think of all those juicy little children."

Her eyes lit up even more, and she made a small squealing sound. "Lovely little lambs, so lost ..." her smile became as sharp as a razor blade, not so much predatory as gleefully murderous. "The cross will not save them. All those shriveled men in their cassocks ... they get stuck in my teeth."

"I'm sure. Do we have a deal?"

Her eyes were hard to look at. "I could make you tell me."

"But don't you want to hurt him? Don't you want your grandfather back?"

Her look changed; he had surprised her with that. So her precognition wasn't total. "Granddaddy? He's gone; wicked bad girl ground him to dust."

"I have a way of bringing him back ... in spirit, if nothing else."

She sat forward, resting her chin in her hands and looking up at him as adoringly as a schoolgirl with a crush. "Your head is full of sparks."

He couldn't even guess what that was supposed to mean. "You know your grandsire was special, yes? He was the founder of the Aurelian line, a special breed of warrior vampires. Sadly the line was diluted the more it spread out. But there is a way to restore the line, to create more of these warrior vampires, these true vampires. All I need is the blood of the most pure member of the Aurelian strain, the less diluted of the line, the most direct descendant possible. Do I need to tell you who that is?"

The smile was back, wolfish and so cold he could feel a shiver in the base of his spine. He didn't let it out; if she smelled any fear, she might attack out of habit. "Daddy. But he's a bad daddy. He won't help you."

"I know. I'm actually hoping he doesn't." He had studied Angelus, read up on all the Watcher journal entries on him he could find, and the pure rumors that existed beyond them. The problem was, he was dead ... or at least he was last time he'd heard. The portents had changed now. Why and how he had no idea, but he was glad; his research wasn't done in vain. "I just want to find him."

She continued to give him a leering smirk that was half drunk and half wicked, her eyes shining like new pennies on a corpse's eyelids. "You want to escape the shadows. You want to be one of them." She made a strange humming noise that could have been a type of swallowed laugh, but there was nothing warm or humorous in it.

He knew what he was, and he knew what he was doing. Yes, he was going to die. The problem with some magicks was that they pulled energy from you; do one dark spell too many, and you could pay for it with your life, as he was. He was trying to figure out how he could save his own life and not give up his magic when he discovered a whole host of Watcher's diaries on sale - on ebay.

It was part of an estate sale, listed as a collection of "gothic fiction" by a distant family member who had no idea it wasn't fiction, and that he had a family member in the demon killing business. It was in one of the diaries that a Watcher named Dhaljit Singh had written about her in depth study of the so called "Aurelian strain", a vampire that was a breed apart. The last true Aurelian, though, was the one often referred to as The Master. His "offspring" were subsequently weaker, and eventually the strain was so diluted within a few generations that it disappeared. Why was the Aurelian strain different? She surmised that the Master was a direct descendant of the first demon that changed a Human into a vampire; he was a part of the original template. But too much mixing with Humans neutered the strain, making them just like any other vampire. The strain might be alive but "dormant" in any of his original line, but the problem was none of the vampires the Master personally sired were still alive; he hadn't sired many, and those he had were done a long time ago. But there was the second generation, those sired by the Master's sirees (for lack of a better term), although many of them were dead as well. (Damn slayers.) But he knew of at least one, one who happened to have been one of the Master's favorites - a vampire named Angelus.

He was pretty famous among European Watchers for his reign of terror, where he was known for such atrocities as massacring entire villages, turning a Slayer into a vampire, and attacking a Watcher's informal retreat in the Swiss alps and killing all inside. Exactly the type of guy you wanted to invite home to mother … if you wanted to see your mother die a horrible death. It was easy to see why the Master loved him so. He was an excellent candidate for the strain just based on his general level of viciousness, and he was still alive (so to speak). But as soon as he prepped to go to Los Angeles, Angelus (now Angel) was gone. He couldn't get a clear answer on what had happened; there was some kind of big battle, and when the dust cleared, Angel was nowhere to be found. So it looked like all his research and spell casting was for naught. He had several other options for keeping himself alive and casting, but he didn't really like them, which was why they weren't his first choice. But just as he was about to give up and make a deal with some minor demon, he heard Angel was back.

There was no point in becoming a plain old vampire. Anybody who watched one too many monster films and had a pool cue could kill you. If he was going to do this, he wanted to be better than the average bloodsucker; he wanted to be a breed apart. And he wanted lackeys with enough strength to keep trouble off his back. "Just tell me where he is, Dru, and I'll tell you where the kids are."

Her look was dreamy, contented, and more than a bit mad, her lips curving into what could have been a smile if it had any warmth or sanity behind it. "Daddy's in his city, but he's not alone. There's a metal tiger man with sparkly blood, my bad little sisters who put wasps in my head, and a fallen angel who glows and hums like a star." She made a strange noise deep in her throat, the type an excited child might make on Christmas morning. "He's so bright and pretty …"she suddenly frowned, her brows dipping sharply down over her eyes. "… but he can be very mean. He burns."

No one mentioned that she babbled. Spoke gibberish, yes, but not rambled on and on about imaginary creatures. "What do you mean he's in his city? Do you mean he's back in Ireland?" Where was Angel from anyways? He couldn't quite recall … did he even know? He knew he was originally from Ireland, sure, but who _didn't_ know that? Wait a moment - city of Angels? "Hold up. Do you mean he's back in Los Angeles?"

Her smile grew wider, showing small, mostly even teeth. "Daddy can't even die right."

"We all have our flaws," he told her, taking the address he wrote down on a scrap of paper out of his pocket. He slid it across the table to her, but quickly withdrew his hand so she didn't touch him as she snatched the note off the table.

Yes, he was going to be a vampire king, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

* * *

Now

This is where he'd imagined they'd be in a perfect world: a penthouse in Tokyo, a large space in the tallest building in the city, which he couldn't help but note was safe from snipers, simply because the building close enough to its height was nearly a half a mile away, and with the mirrored, polarized windows, a sniper would find a shot impossible. It really bothered him he couldn't stop thinking about these kind of things.

The window wall in their bedroom gave them a spectacular view of the city, especially at nights, but it was dawn now, the sky a rosy, golden tinged pink, and it was still beautiful. There was no such thing as a perfect world, but this was probably close.

Mariko turned over, settling against his chest as he laid there, glancing out the window and wondering why his stomach felt like a solid slab of granite. It was clenched so tight it hurt.

He stroked her back idly as she slid her arm over his chest, letting out a sleepy, contented noise. "You do sleep, right?" she murmured.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Possibly. I had a bad dream about you."

"What did I do?"

She ran her hand over his chest, almost tracing a pattern. "It was really weird. It was you, but not you; it was like someone else was behind your eyes. Someone I didn't like very much."

Was that a warning of some sort? Perhaps; he wasn't sure. "I'll make sure if I'm possessed, it'll be by someone nice."

She slapped his arm, and he chuckled, although it seemed forced, and made his gut hurt more. It had to be psychosomatic, as his healing factor should have kicked in by now. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. See if you get laid again."

"Well actually, I'm good right now."

"Oh, I'm sure you are." Her soft hair tickled his skin in a familiar way, and he loved it. He forgot so much about her, but they couldn't take away his sense memories. He knew her smell, the taste of her skin, the feel of her touch; they could almost reconstruct her whole. She was soft and warm, and he never wanted to leave.

_(So why was his gut still hurting?)_

"Are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

He glanced down at her. "Nothing's bothering me."

She looked back at him and frowned, her black eyes still betraying a hint of sleepiness. "Hon, I'm your wife. Would you like to try that again?"

He sighed and rolled his eyes sarcastically. Yes, there were major downsides to marriage, and this was one of them - a near inability to keep secrets from her. "I'm just … I'm a complete bastard, Riko. I never deserved you, and I still don't."

She propped herself up on her elbow, and looked down at him, a savage look in her eyes. "What the fuck is this self-pity bullshit? Will you knock it off? It'll really hurt if I knee you in the groin now."

That was undoubtedly true. "If I loved you enough, I could do this," he said, his voice almost breaking. He had to close his eyes to hold back the tears. "I want this; I want you more than anything else. So why can't I do this? What's wrong with me?"

When he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him in obvious consternation. God, she was so beautiful his stomach hurt even more. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He ran a hand through her warm, mussed hair, enjoying its silky feel beneath his fingers. "I failed you," he told her in a hushed whisper; he couldn't keep the tears from falling, but it was too hard to try. "I didn't protect you, you died, and I can bring you back; I have a chance to bring you back. And I can't do it."

"What? Are you on medication? I'm not dead. And even if I was somehow, you never failed me, you self-deluded shithead. You've saved my life - and my family's - more than I've ever bothered to count. I know for a fact you'd die for me, which is a little frightening if I think about it for a while, but still … fail me? You could walk out the door now and I'd never think you'd failed me in any way. I might think you're an asshole, but that's a different story." She gave him a small, encouraging smile, but it faltered in the face of his miserable expression. "Are you actually serious?"

He took her face in his hands, and realized that even though she wasn't technically real, that she wouldn't remember this anyways, he didn't want her to know what happened to her, or how badly he'd failed her. "I will never love anyone like I loved you. You know that, don't you?"

She seemed briefly suspicious, as if she couldn't quite follow this conversational shift, but she brushed away his tears with her thumb, and said, "Ah, here's the sappy bastard I know and love. Yes, I do; I've never loved anyone like you either. Scary, isn't it?"

"Frightening," he agreed, and kissed her. She responded warmly, easily, her body pressing against his in a way that felt like deja vu, but wasn't quite. He wanted to tell her that he liked the man he was with her, but he had died with her, and he wasn't the same; part of him feared that he could destroy everything and bring her back, but he'd be so different from the man she loved that she wouldn't love him anymore. It was stupid and selfish and cowardly, but somehow he knew he could bring her back, yet in doing so he'd destroy more than just the world as he knew it. What they had was one of those once in a lifetime things, the perfect meshing of personalities and desires and needs, and he would fuck it up so badly she'd realize she'd made a horrible mistake. But better her alive and hating him than dead. So why couldn't he do it?

He didn't fool himself - he wasn't a good man. He wished he was, but he just wasn't. Maybe he wasn't the animal the Organization wanted him to be, but he was far from an ideal Human being. Calling him a "hero" made him want to shudder at the abuse of the term. He was simply the bully for the good guys, the one who used his talent to destroy to help them (and help them retain their moral superiority, since he was the only one who got his hands dirty). He was sure Riko wouldn't recognize him, which would be doubly true if he destroyed everything just for her. If she _ever_ found out, she would never stop hating him. What he loved about her was how compassionate she was, even if that almost endless well of forgiveness helped kill her (after all, she was the only one in her family with a conscience; that was a weakness that they ultimately couldn't abide). If he did this, he'd be more of a Yashida than she ever was - destroying the world for a selfish desire was something they usually did before breakfast. But not her, never her.

She was too good for all of them. She deserved her time in a better place, away from all the killers and thieves and others who thought life was the cheapest commodity around. The ultimate irony was he belonged in her family more than she ever had. He bet they recognized it too, although not in time; not quick enough to keep him from destroying them all. When he died, he died violently, taking them all with him as he went. If the best of them couldn't exist - Mariko - then neither could the worst of them; he made damn sure of that. (But he included himself in the worst of them list, which earned him no brownie points, but he hoped that someone somewhere would cut him some slack for that.)

Her kiss lingered on his lips, along with the feeling of her body, but he made it all go away because he had to. His stomach was clenched so tight it felt like he was doing damage to himself, his stillborn conscience kicking up a fuss all its own. He closed his eyes as he let this reality dissolve all around him, and opened them when he was sure he was back in Bob's Sydney home, in the living room of what seemed like an empty house. He sat on the sofa, waiting for him to show, because as abandoned as it was he knew he was here. This was a mindscape, namely Bob's, so he couldn't not be here.

He'd been in his living room more than once, but as he wiped the tears from his eyes, he thought the color of the carpet had changed. Had it always been this shade of vivid indigo blue? It was a really odd color for a carpet, it couldn't exist in reality, but very little that was in his house could exist in reality, so that was no hindrance.

He'd almost pulled himself completely together when he heard footsteps on the stairs. "Logan," Bob said with an irritatingly cheerful tone. "I thought I sensed you here. How goes it?"

"Take it away," he said, without bothering to look at him. He kept staring at his bold carpet, thinking he could almost see flecks of mica in its strand. Something shiny, something metallic. "Or block it off, something. Make it like it was before, so it'll only kick in when I really need it. I can't have it at my fingertips."

"What, the power? Why? You're handling it splendidly. In fact, I'm pretty sure the rest of the PTB's are shitting themselves - well, figuratively; excretion is only for corporeals, but I'm sure you know what I mean. Humans can't handle the power, or so they've always claimed. They really don't like being proved wrong. Hell, I think they're gonna take the power from me and give it to you."

"I'm not kidding. Get it the fuck away from me before I … just do it. Get rid of it; block it off. Do it now. I can't fight it forever."

He felt Bob's shadow over him, and reluctantly looked up. He was standing there in his usual leather pants and baffling t-shirt (this time it said "Poisonous and Evil Rubbish", with the design of a stick figure throwing something in a trash can). His eyes just mildly neon. "Actually, you can. If you were ever gonna do it, you'd have done it already. You are one stubborn motherfucker, mate. Do you think it's a case of personality suiting biology, vice versa, or just a happy coincidence? I mean, your body very stubbornly wants to survive at all costs. In a bullheadedness-off, I don't know which one of you'd win."

He glared up at him, feeling the mildest of shocks. Bob knew he wanted to wreck reality to bring Mariko back? So why didn't he try and stop him? "Would you have let me do it?" he snapped. "Or was it a test?"

He shook his head. "I'm a big proponent of free will. If you're stuck being my avatar, you might as well do something with the power; it's the least I owe you. But I'm not worried about it, 'cause clearly you understand that what you're holding is thermonuclear, and you have no desire to deploy it. This is where your age shows. You've learned there's such a thing as too much power."

Logan jumped to his feet, the sudden and somewhat inexplicable rage filling him giving him something to focus on, something to pull his mind away from Mariko and his constant, continual failure of her, alive or dead. "Don't you dare say that. Don't you -"

"What? Don't I what, Logan?" he interrupted, partly challenging and partly curious. "Why do you hate yourself so much for doing the right thing?"

He didn't know what he was going to say anymore; the words died in his throat, and he desperately wanted to hit him, to just beat him senseless so he didn't have to think anymore. His hands curled into tight fists, and his claws itched beneath his skin. Oh yeah, he was such a good man he wanted to cut him in half in cold blood. Man, he was the second coming of Gandhi.

"If it'll make you feel better, do it," Bob said casually. "It's a mindscape - no harm, no foul."

"Stop being so fucking reasonable," he growled. For some reason, Bob's calm acceptance was making him angrier.

"You know better than I do that she wouldn't want you to do it. You love her enough to respect her wishes, no matter what you want."

"Shut up!" he roared, but rather than attack him, he seemed to lose all strength in his legs, and he collapsed back onto the couch, holding his head in his hands. It was possible Bob had made that happen, but the hollow ache in his gut convinced him that wasn't so. No, Bob had uncovered a terrible truth, something he knew but hadn't wanted to admit. Yes, Riko wouldn't want him to do it; he knew it. Again, she was his conscience, and dead for decades or not, he still couldn't act contrary to her wishes, even if it helped her. "Fuck, I hate this."

"I know, it's not fair," Bob agreed, sounding genuinely sorry. "But if it's any consolation, I'm serious about the PTBs. They're watching you, and they're pretty impressed, if not a bit pissed off. You're supposed to be doing a Jean and going crazy with your god powers and you're just contradicting them. I think they might … reward you somehow. Not sure; they're pretty capricious."

He glanced up at him, still feeling painfully bereft, but confusion was tempering it. "Reward me? How? Should I be worried?"

Bob thought about that a moment, grimacing, and then shrugged. "Well, it wouldn't hurt. Their ideas of rewards can be weird."

He stared at him somewhat caustically. "Really. Like yours?"

Bob wagged his finger back and forth, the universal gesture for "don't go there", but he still smiled anyways. "I like to think mine are opportunities for growth."

If that was true, Logan figured he should be about twenty feet tall by now. Oh shit - he hoped they didn't take that literally.


	2. Chapter 2

2

It worked out nicely that he had remarkably shitty hours. Or at least it seemed to for Kier.

Because he had a tendency to work all night and stumble home blearily in the mid-morning or afternoons, he had a blind and heavy curtains covering both windows in his apartment (the narrow one in his bathroom was made of frosted plastic, so light wasn't a major issue there) so he could sleep. The California sun seemed particularly merciless when you were trying to keep vampire hours, as if the people with their boombastic stereos on the street below weren't bad enough. So there was no problem in having his vampire boyfriend sleep over, as his place was naturally dark.

Okay, he wasn't his boyfriend; he wasn't sure what Kier was. The guy he was using until he talked. Now there was something he could be proud of! Brendan Chambers - he love you long time … _until you spill your guts, you manipulative rat bastard! _He was going to slap that on his resume.

So far they'd been together for a week, and Kier hadn't spilled his guts yet. He was very in character, though. Bren had learned a lot about the behind the scenes making of a t.v. series, as well as trivia tidbits he had no idea what he'd do with (Gillian Anderson was more prone to giggles than you would think). Kier seemed to sincerely miss acting, and it was weird to think that his desire for revenge for never getting a shot at a two picture deal with Paramount might have drove him to wipe out everyone behind Silver Sun Productions, but he'd heard of weirder reasons for revenge. Barely.

After he came out of the shower, he looked at Kier still in bed in his darkened living room, and he looked like he was dead. Well, he was, so that made sense, but he was always so still it was kind of creepy.

He quietly pulled a clean t-shirt out of his drawer and shrugged it on as he went to his kitchenette and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. He didn't have a lot of time for breakfast - or was it technically lunch now? - but he had enough time to have a little comfort food before he went off to the office. He reached into the cupboard and took down the little devil shaped salt shaker he picked up in a thrift store (how could he pass it up?), which was full of his own special mixture of cinnamon and sugar, so he never had to bother measuring it out.

He got a mocha frappuchino out of the fridge and wondered again if he had the slightest idea what he was doing, other than being a professional jerk. He was no longer sure. Kier seemed genuinely lonely, which only meant he fit the bill as a patsy, if it didn't mean he was one of the greatest actors never to reach the big screen.

Toast done, he smeared butter pats taken from various restaurants (almost all his condiments were from restaurants) on them, then sprinkled on the cinnamon sugar mixture. It was all so terribly Freudian why this was such a comforting food to him; this was the first food he learned to make for himself. He could remember being so pleased with himself, eating it at the breakfast table which was littered with smelly beer bottles and partially damp with spilled booze. His mother was passed out on the couch, while a strange man he'd never seen before was passed out in a bean bag chair. (He never saw the guy again, so he never did learn who he was.)

He'd put the shaker away and was about to bite into his first piece of toast when he saw Kier up on his side, staring at him with those sky blue eyes, and the shock of his obvious awareness made Bren jump. He hadn't even heard him roll over. What a freaky vampire thing to do.

Kier grinned at him, the sheets pooled near his waist, showing off two thirds of a bare torso. And what a nice torso it was. "You know, that actually smells pretty good. I don't suppose you have a slice for me."

"Since when do vampires eat toast?"

He shrugged casually, propping himself up on his elbow, making the sheet slide even lower. The way he was smiling lazily seemed to suggest that he knew what he was doing, and he knew he looked good. The hell of it was, he did. The guy was smoking hot, even hotter than Matt, and that was saying something. He was also one hell of a kisser. He was trying hard not to think about it. "As far as I know, they don't. But the cinnamon smells good."

Bren bit into his toast, wondering if he should feel more guilty for using him. But he suspected they were using each other, so why feel bad at all? "There's more in the cupboard. Feel free to help yourself."

That made his smile a bit more sly. "No room service for me, huh?"

"I'm in a hurry. I slept in too late."

"Oh yes, the office," he sighed, sitting up. "Am I ever gonna meet the parents, or am I still your dirty secret?"

Kier's desire to meet everyone struck him as damn suspicious. Somehow he'd gone from being afraid of meeting Angel to basically dying to meet him. It wasn't a subject he could dance around forever. But would they understand that he was playing him in order to figure out who he was working for?

He was not looking forward to that conversation.

* * *

It really wasn't something a man wanted to deal with in the morning, no matter how late it was.

"Seriously, do they look okay? Or do I look like I just hitched in from the Greyhound station?"

Logan suppressed a sigh as he looked across the room at Faith, modeling the latest pair of black jeans she'd put on. Normally Faith didn't give a shit about clothes - that was one of the things he loved about her - but technically she was going to a job interview, and not with any old guy either. So that made her nervous. "They make your ass look fabulous," he replied, digging his chopsticks into his take out box of chow mein.

She checked her butt in the mirror inside her closet door, then shot him a slightly taunting look. "Are you saying my ass doesn't always look fabulous?"

She was teasing, but that was the kind of thing that could make a man sorry he ever opened his mouth. "I meant to say fabulous - er, but I'm pretty sure that's not a word."

"Slick." She turned back to the closet and started pawing through her shirts with an almost desperate hysteria. After tossing all the men's shirts on the bed, she didn't have a lot. Which was probably why she was wearing just the jeans and a black lace bra, which was impossibly sexy on her. But everything and nothing was incredibly sexy on her; she was gifted like that.

While he was unconscious and recovering from his stint of being Bob (he was unconscious for almost two days, but at least he spent it here in her apartment), Faith and Marc had talked a lot, and they got on like a house afire (no surprise there). She'd mentioned her uncertain employment situation, and Marc said he thought he knew someone who might need someone with her uniquely brutal skill set. A couple days later, he called her and set up a meeting between her and Tony Tagawa for today, in a building he owned near Century City.

Ehud was still on the job, but considering what a dangerous world it was, Tony was thinking of expanding his private security roster. Logan had told Faith this was just a formality, and the fact that Marc had recommended her to him pretty much meant that she already had the job; this was just a vetting, a meeting to make sure he liked her. If he liked her, she had the job, simple as that. Faith didn't seem to believe it was quite that easy, but she hadn't met him yet.

Faith looked at herself once more in the mirror, frowning at what she saw. She must have been delusional. "Would a skirt be better? I'm pretty sure I have one around here. Only it's black leather."

"It's an interview for bodyguard, not arm candy. Jeans are fine."

She stared at him, raising her eyebrow in a rather cool manner, but he saw her brief anger turn to mirth. "Arm candy, huh? Think that spot's open?"

He almost choked on his cold chow mein noodles. "I'm sure it is, but you'd be a beard only. Tony's gay."

Her look was dubious at best. "No fucking way. You're just saying that."

He snorted a laugh. "Darlin', I've known him for quite a while now. I know which way he swings."

"But I've never seen him on the cover of the Advocate. You'd think they'd be all over a multi-millionaire."

"Billionaire."

She shrugged. "He in the closet?"

"Not as such. He's just very ... discreet. You have to understand he came of age in a different time, and in a different culture. Any kind of thing that would set him outside the mainstream would make him a pariah. He got so used to living below the radar that he still does it."

She thought about that, then nodded in agreement and started going through the shirts still hanging in her closet. "No wonder he's a friend of yours, huh? All you discreet old guys."

He was taking a swig of beer at the time, and it nearly went up his nose. He coughed and hit his chest until he could breathe again. "Discreet? Me? Or are you talking to someone else?"

She flashed him a quick, sharp grin. "Oh yeah, you go around loudly announcing you're older than Dick Clark, and a mutant as well. Come on."

"Well, I don't have to announce that last bit. People generally figure it out."

"Before or after they shoot you?"

"After, usually."

"Ah." She took out a handful of shirts and tossed them all on the bed. "How come I only own t-shirts? I swear I used to own good shirts." She paused, a troubled look on her face. "I think."

"A t-shirt's fine, hon. He ain't gonna judge you on your wardrobe. If he did, he'd have never let Marc bring me in on some jobs." He hadn't told her that there had been a rough patch between him and Tony after the Hong Kong fiasco. Tony had apologized and seemed genuinely contrite, so he didn't hate the guy - he was one of the rare good ones, for the most part, especially for a rich old bastard - but he knew better than to completely trust him. He'd warned Faith, as gently as possible, to never forget the guy got where he was because he had a ruthless streak, and he may have been "an old queen" (Marc's term), but he was one of the shrewdest men you'd ever meet in your life. His weapon was knowledge, and fuck if he didn't know how to use it.

But he had no doubt he'd treat Faith well. He usually treated his salaried employees like family members he liked.

Faith didn't acknowledge his comment, just dug through the dregs of her closet, tossing out more men's shirts (none of them his - did he really want to know? ) before pulling out a black long sleeved blouse. She looked pleased, but as soon as she held it up to herself, it was immediately apparent it was see through. She threw it on the bed and started searching anew.

He felt weird; he woke up feeling weird. Even taking a shower hadn't helped. He wasn't honestly sure if he was out of sorts or maybe depressed; there was a point where such distinctions became irrelevant. The PTBs hadn't done anything to him yet (as far as he could tell such things), but he hoped they changed their mind and didn't. Having Bob's power was bad enough, but at least now it was back in dormancy, so he couldn't just access it without thought or a damn good reason. It was like having the safety on an automatic weapon, and it made him feel better.

Faith pulled out a blue velvet long sleeved blouse, and he said automatically, "Perfect."

She looked at him, surprised and hopeful. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. Blue's his favorite color." That was actually a guess, based on the dominant colors of most of Tony's interiors; he had no idea what Tony's favorite color was. He just wanted Faith to stop obsessing.

She put the shirt on, and buttoned it up. Even completely fastened, it had a plunging neckline that showed off a goodly amount of cleavage. A bit on the sexy side, but very tame compared to that see through shirt. She fluffed out her hair and stared at herself experimentally, still frowning. "You're sure it isn't too ..?"

He didn't wait for her to say it. "No, it's perfect. You just may make him straight."

She scowled at him and gave him the finger, but she closed the closet door. Eureka! Obsession was over.

"He's not a vegan, is he?"

That was an odd question. "I don't think so. Why?"

"All I have is a leather jacket."

Before he could tell her he really didn't think that would matter, there was a knock on the door. He glanced at her clock, and wondered if Marc would really show up this early. He was usually prompt to the millisecond. Even Faith gave him a suspicious look. "Expecting company?"

"No, never. But I usually get it anyways."

She went to the door, and he sniffed experimentally, to see if he could catch a scent. Faith looked back at him, as if awaiting his judgment. "Someone we know?"

"Yeah, it's familiar." He did know it, but placing the smell was a momentary trouble.

"Good or bad?"

"Uh ... good, I think. It's that guy Giles' knows."

Although she frowned at his vagueness, the name Giles was enough to make her unlock and open the door.

"Hola mi amiga," the guy said with forced cheer, and finally Logan placed the name: Xander. Right; the annoying guy. "Hope you didn't mind me stopping by."

"If I did, would you go?" she replied, but she still left the door ajar as she walked away, a tacit invitation for him to come inside. He was just a regular Human; he was no threat.

He walked in with a slightly humorous scoff. "Well, that's grat -" he froze as soon as he was inside and his hazel eyes locked on Logan, sitting shirtless behind her kitchen counter, eating his cold Chinese take out breakfast. He couldn't see him from the waist down because he was behind the counter, but he did have his jeans on; he just hadn't been able to find his shirt. Faith had probably thrown it on top of the bookshelf, as she had before. Xander's numb shock seem to ripple across his face as he adjusted. "You."

Logan looked at him with a raised eyebrow, wondering if he still had a little something for Faith, or maybe just didn't like him. "Me. Gotta problem with that?"

Although the answer in his eyes was clearly _"Yes", _he turned his attention towards Faith. "This guy? Faith, seriously - screaming bloody death claw guy? You could do better."

She shrugged on her jacket and smirked. "Actually, no I can't. He's great in bed."

Logan swallowed a laugh as she tossed him a wink, and Xander looked vaguely horrified, which was surely the reaction she wanted. He looked like he dropped by on his way to work, or maybe he came here from work, hard to say. He wore worn jeans that were rather frayed in spots, scuffed work boots that probably had steel toes, and a blue chambray shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was wearing a pendant around his neck, but he couldn't see what it was. "Gee, thanks for sharing. Next time you get the urge, don't."

"Hey, my place, my rules. So why're you here? Nostalgia nookie?" She was clearly enjoying horrifying him.

Xander looked briefly aghast, but he caught on to her game quickly and settled on giving her an evil look. "No. I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"I've got a boyfriend now."

"Would you please stop that? I'm serious." He shot Logan a suspicious look, and then leaned towards her, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "Can we discuss this in private?"

She shook her head. "If you can say it to me, you can say it to him."

He groaned in disbelief, and seemed to give her a pleading look, a "don't make me do this" kind of expression, but it had no effect on Faith, who was generally immune to all types of begging. Finally he sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat, and said, "Fine. Look, I just wanted to ask you if you could pass on a message to Angel for me."

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"'Cause I hate him?"

"You can't hate him that much if you wanna talk to him," Logan interjected.

That earned him a dirty look from Xander. His glass eye looked really good, so much so it was easy to believe he had two, except when you noticed that only one of them actually moved. "Stay out of this, fuzzy."

Faith slapped Xander's arm lightly, regaining his attention. "He's just sayin' what I was about to say. Go talk to Angel yourself, Xan, you're an adult. Act like one."

"What, and start now?" The joke fell so flat Logan could just about hear the thud. Xander must have realized that, because he moved on quickly. "Faith, he ain't gonna do this for me. For you, yeah, but not me."

"Do what?" she wondered.

He scratched his head nervously, wiped sweat off his upper lip. He really didn't want to say this, or even be here; Logan could smell the desperation on him like a bad aftershave. "One of my work crew's gone missing, and I can't go to the police."

Faith cocked her head curiously. "He a demon?"

"No … not to my knowledge. He's just … uh …"

"Illegal?" Logan guessed.

The glance he shot him, furtive and guilty, seemed to confirm that. "Not exactly. Okay, look, Berto told me a couple months ago that he was using his brother's work visa. His brother came to L.A. to work so he could send the money home to his mother back in Oaxaca, who has enormous medical bills. His brother died in a car accident shortly after coming here, so Berto came to take his place. He was working on getting his own visa under his real name, but in the meantime he was working under his brother's. He's a good guy, a real hard worker, and I don't want to get him in trouble with immigration. But …"

"What's happened to him?" Logan asked, and suddenly wondered why he cared. But he knew, didn't he? Immigrants had a tendency to fall through the cracks; even if he did go to the cops, they probably wouldn't give a damn. Logan felt a kind of solidarity with everyone who fell between the cracks and disappeared, much like he had. He didn't like hearing about it happening to anyone else.

Xander seemed both surprised and annoyed that he'd asked, but he answered the question anyways. "I don't know. He's missing."

Faith shrugged, deciding to play devil's advocate. "He could have gone home. Maybe there was an emergency, maybe he didn't have time to tell you."

Xander shook his head vehemently, making strands of his black hair flop around on his forehead. "No. Berto wouldn't have done that. This guy's so responsible his nickname is Padre."

Faith's brow furrowed in confusion. "Priest?"

"Father," Logan said.

"He leaves me a note if he's running off to In 'N' Out Burger for lunch. And he wouldn't leave Paco behind, but he did; Mrs. Hernandez says she's been watching him since Saturday, when she found him scratching at her door and whining for food."

"Paco?" she asked.

"His dog," he clarified. "Some small and annoying thing that just seems to shake and pee, but he loved that damn dog. And yet he seemed to have abandoned it on Friday, and no one's seen him since."

"So you were by his house?" Logan asked, although it was hardly a question. If he knew about the dog's abandonment - Mrs. Hernandez must have been a neighbor - he had been.

He nodded. "The mail was crammed in his box. He didn't bother to get it Friday, which makes me wonder if he even made it home after work."

"You checked his mail?" Faith sounded surprised, almost impressed.

Xander looked slightly wounded. "Hey, I might have been the member of the Scooby gang who always needed rescuing, but I wasn't totally useless. Not completely … most of the time."

It was Logan's turn to be puzzled. "Scooby gang?"

Faith grimaced and waved her hand dismissively. "It's what Buffy's friends used to call their little group."

"Little? Tell him the truth - we were a fierce fighting force. " At Faith's withering glance, he grinned anemically. "Oh, like you've never lied."

"This is a real thin case," Logan said, deciding to ignore this nostalgic aside. "It's only Tuesday. If he had to be careful about his mode of transport, he might just be now reaching Oaxaca."

Xander shook his head slowly and firmly through his statement. "No. He'd never just drop everything and go with no warning; he wouldn't have abandoned that damned dog. And … something was up with him. He was starting to get jumpy, nervous, and when I asked him about it, he said he didn't want to get me involved. I think someone was after him, and I think they got him. And I don't mean the INS."

Faith looked at him, and in that moment Logan knew they were thinking the same thing. This was anxiety and paranoia, but not a case for evil doings, and certainly not supernatural ones, which Angel generally handled. They felt bad for him, but they weren't sure how they could help. She looked at him, and began gently, "Xander -"

But her tone of voice warned him what was coming, and he threw his hands up in exasperation. "No, don't dismiss me," he snapped. "I know I'm not anything special, I'm not a Watcher or a vampire or anything but a schlub with the worst fucking luck in the world, but my gut's telling me something bad happened to Berto. If I didn't learn to trust my gut I'd have been dead a long time ago. If I can help him, I'm gonna find a way. So are you gonna help me or not?" He meant it too; Logan could smell the anger tinge his sweat, which was already acidic with anxiety and fear.

Faith must have been convinced, because she frowned slightly and ran a hand through her hair, glancing at the carpet. Her posture straightened as she seemed to have an idea, and looked straight at Logan. Oh no. "I'll make you a deal, Xan. Take Logan's to Berto's house. If he says it's worth investigating, we'll do it. But if he says it isn't, you drop it or turn it over to cops. Okay?"

It was hard to tell who hated this idea more: him or Xander. "Me? Why?"

"Him? Why?"

Faith ignored Xander. "Because you can pick up things other people miss, Logan," she explained patiently. He knew she was referring cryptically to his sense of smell. "If you find nothing unusual there, there's nothing unusual to find."

Also she had a job interview, and she wasn't going to waste her time checking out a man's house. He gave her an evil look, even though he knew it'd do him no good whatsoever. "I'm not doing it."

"You are, and you know why."

_If he ever wanted to get laid again _was the implied threat. It was a good threat too, and she knew it. He narrowed his eyes and scowled, but that wasn't going to do any good either. This was the problem with dating pushy women; too bad they were just so damn sexy.

Xander gestured at him but didn't look at him. "Him? Faith, c'mon, I don't need someone julienned - I want to find him in one piece, not have his arms ripped off. "

"He can do a hell of a lot more than that," she insisted, giving him a look that suggested he better not push her or bad mouth her boyfriend anymore.

Logan shoved his carton aside and stood up. "Can I stab him if he annoys me? More than usual."

Faith made a show of thinking about it. "Only a flesh wound, and only with one claw."

"Hey!" Xander protested, but what could he honestly say? He was getting what he wanted.

Logan just hoped that Faith knew that she had to humor some of his boneheaded friends sometime. That was what a relationship was all about.

3

Xander's car smelled of stale beer, fast food wrappers, and just a hint of cat. "You have a cat," Logan said, as he got in the front seat. He had a '05 model Chevrolet Cobalt , dark blue (but not exactly cobalt) with some minor dents on the right rear side. It wasn't the type of car he would have ascribed to a construction foreman, but then again, he never would have guessed Xander as a construction foreman either.

He put on his seatbelt and gave him a sidelong glance in the rearview mirror. "Yeah. How do you know that?"

"It was in the car recently. Vet appointment?"

Now he openly stared at him. "You enjoy being freaky, don't you?"

He shrugged, glancing out the passenger side window. "Just makin' conversation."

He started the car - sounded like the flywheel was getting worn - and continued staring at him. "So this super smelling thing you got going on - that ever pay off for you?"

"Sometimes. "

"Are you gonna put on your seat belt?"

"Don't need to."

He sighed in exasperation, as if he was already tired of humoring him. "Whatever."

They drove down towards East L.A. in semi-awkward silence. Berto was named Alberto (although that was actually his late brother's name - Berto's real first name was Rodrigo) Soto, he was thirty one (Alberto was only two years older), and Xander had brought a picture that was obviously taken at a construction site; he was a solidly built man, about five eight, nearly two hundred pounds, but most of that was muscles as opposed to fat. He didn't look like a weightlifter, but someone who came by his strength naturally from lots of hard physical work. His black hair was very short - almost a Caesar cut - and his face was round, chin soft, eyes shadowy beneath a heavy brow. He wasn't an overly handsome man, but he wasn't ugly; he was just somewhere in the middle area, where most people were. He'd never be able to pick his face out of a crowd, but his body type he might; there really weren't that many men in the general population with that kind of build.

Berto lived in an urban neighborhood that was trying to be suburban and failing miserably. Gangbangers stood on nearly every corner, watching everything and everyone as they smoked and took surreptitious hits from brown bags, and yet Logan knew that if the cops ever bothered to come down here, those guys would amazingly have seen absolutely nothing at all.

Berto had a small pre-fab home on the left side of the street, in a line of similar looking homes, with a postage stamp sized lawn burned to brown straw in the sun, protected by a waist high chain link fence that couldn't have protected shit. It was painted a white that was yellowed and peeling, with brown trim that looked like mud, and a concrete walk that led straight up to a brown door that looked newer than the rest of the house, suggesting it had been kicked in or broken down at some point. Xander parked next to the curb in front of his house, and as they got out the gangbangers on the nearest corner stared at them, but said nothing. Fine with him; they were all under twenty, and he hated kicking kid's asses, no matter how obnoxious or asking for it they were.

Xander led the way to the front door, the unlocked gate creaking like it had never seen an oil can in its life, and he said, "The door's locked, which I considered a good sign, although maybe not. How do you tell?"

"When were you here?" Logan wondered.

"Monday night, I became worried when he didn't show up for work and never picked up the phone when I called."

Logan could smell old dog shit, baking earth, cigarette smoke from the gangbangers on the corner, but nothing helpful. Xander stepped aside and gestured at the door. "So how do we do this? Do you need to walk around the house or something?"

"No." He went right up to the door and took a deep breath, figuring that this whole thing was a total bust and a waste of his morning, but as he parsed the scents, something hit him. Oh shit.

"Do you know what kinda locks he's got on this door?" he asked, making sure the gangbangers couldn't see him from this angle.

"Uh, no. Why?" Xander stepped back as Logan popped a single one of his claws and slid it through the crack of the door. "Whoa. We breaking in?"

"Have to." Berto had a standard doorknob lock and a deadbolt. Both were easy for him to manage.

Xander was alarmed now, he could smell it, and he approached him warily, lowering his voice. "What, did you actually get something? What do you smell?"

Should he tell him? It might upset him. But he started this, and if Logan was right, he was going to see for himself the moment he opened the door. So Logan told him. "Blood."


	3. Chapter 3

"Blood?" Xander repeated, sounding distressed. "Holy shit."

Logan pushed the door open, and he felt Xander peering over his shoulder as he stepped inside. There was a puddle of blood dried to rusty brown in the foyer, which was extremely small, meaning it was only a foot and a few inches away from him. The puddle was no bigger than a beer spill, although there were small brown flecks on the right side wall that nearly blended in with the wallpaper.

Xander gasped behind him, and then shouted, "Berto? You here?"

Logan winced, since he was essentially shouting in his ear, and walked inside, avoiding the blood. "There's no one here anymore," he told him crossly. "No one's been here for … two days, maybe. He live alone?"

Xander stared at the blood, and it took a moment for him to respond. "Uh, as far as I know, yeah. You can tell how long the house's been empty by smell?"

"No, by the blood. It takes time to thicken and turn brown." He leaned closer to the flecks on the wall and sniffed, while Xander said, horrified, "Tell me you're not going to lick it."

He straightened up and glared bloody death at him as he closed the door. "No. This blood's different."

He froze, looking between the wall and the floor. There was no visual difference, if that's what he was searching for. "What? How can you tell?"

"More sugar. This guy's verging on diabetes, if he doesn't already have it."

Xander looked at him like he wasn't sure if he was yanking his chain or not. "You can smell that in blood?"

He nodded, walking into the small living room. The whole house was small; it was like a mobile home, only square as opposed to rectangular. "Blood is blood, but smell can vary. Everybody has different body chemistry, states of health … but I guess most people can't smell the difference unless it's really bad."

He paused, seemed to consider that a moment, and then declared, "Man! I've come face to face with all kinds of demon and beasties, including potential in-laws, but this is one of the creepiest things I've ever witnessed. So you're telling me Berto fought with some guy who was diabetic?"

"Two guys." Xander's jaw slackened, and before he could ask, he explained, "I smell three distinct people have been here recently, all men, only two of which bled. One of 'em was wearing some really stinky aftershave I don't recognize; it's like salty cheese with a hint of musk. You don't smell it?"

He shook his head slowly. "I smell old blood now, but that's it. Do you think …" he gestured helplessly at the blood on the floor and the wall, careful not to step on any as he moved past it. Logan suddenly realized that while the guy was a little freaked by what he was telling him, he didn't disbelieve him. That earned him a grudging point.

It took him a moment, but he got his unspoken message. "Nobody died here; I don't smell death. There ain't enough blood to suggest a major injury. Even the blood splatter is meager; arterial would have fanned. This was a skirmish, worst than most, but not too bad."

Xander looked honestly relieved, exhaled a breath he probably didn't realize he was holding. He knew death had a smell; he knew what it smelled like. That earned him another point. "Great, okay, not dead." He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, then looked at him suspiciously. "How do you know arterial blood fans ..?"

"If I said I watched too much CSI, would you believe me?"

He didn't even think about it. "No."

Logan fixed him with a firm stare. "Then do you really want to know?"

He stared back at him, and rather than answer, he asked him another question. "You used to be a bad guy, didn't you?"

"Not willingly, but yeah."

He nodded, not even asking for details. "Okay, yeah, then I think that tells me everything I need to know."

He was glad he let go of it that easily, most people didn't. But he had dealt with a lot of weird shit; this was just more shit to add to the pile.

The living room was relatively austere, with a rather bland striped loveseat and matching chair arranged around a small television on a stand and a low slung coffee table that looked like it had seen better decades. There was a '70's era glass ashtray on it, with a couple of butts in it (Marlboros), and a small pile of open mail, all bills. He took a guess and looked inside the envelopes, but the amount required was not unusual or unreasonable. The light coming through the closed, heavy off white curtains was a urine tinged yellow, making the carpet - which was a dun brown normally - look like a floor of rotted leaf mold.

"Why are you looking at his light bill?" Xander's tone of voice suggested he thought he was a complete nutter.

"I was wonderin' if he was in hock to loan sharks or somethin', but these ain't too bad. So that theory's probably toast." There was something wrong with this living room, but it took him a moment to figure out what it was. It looked like a hotel room, like a place where someone was stopping by on their way to somewhere else. There was nothing here that gave you any idea about the man who dwelled here; no sense of personality or taste. This was just generic "Room", which could have belonged to anyone. This was his brother's house, wasn't it? He took his work visa, his name, his house, and yet never quite settled into them; he lived like a renter in someone else's life, and never got comfortable with it.

A small hall led to the rooms that were the bedroom and bathroom, while the kitchen was connected to the living room by a small archway. He went into the kitchen, which was surprisingly clean and uncluttered for that of a bachelor's, with only a few dirty dishes starting to molder in the chipped sink. His fridge, an older model that was harvest gold and probably came with the house, had only a single magnet on it, a calendar from a plumbing company, and a check inside showed three frozen dinners and a chicken breast in the freezer; the refrigerator was meagerly stocked with a couple of bottles of Corona, half a lemon covered in plastic wrap, bottles of mustard and salsa and hot sauce, some carrots in a plastic bag that were starting to wrinkle with age, a half bag of oranges (those kind people sold on the turnpike), and something bloody and red in a tray covered with more plastic wrap. A closer look and a sniff revealed it to be steak marinating in some kind of sauce heavy with tomatoes and peppers. This was another sign that he had intended to come back - who left a steak marinating while you nipped off to Mexico? Even if it was a tough cut of beef that required a couple of days of stewing, you just didn't do that.

He took a bottle of beer out and twisted the cap off, taking a deep swig as Xander joined him in the kitchen. "You're stealing his beer? That's low."

"Want one?"

He looked appalled. "At this time of day?" He paused briefly. "Yeah, okay."

He'd figured as much - he had smelled the old beer in his car. He tossed him a bottle and kicked the fridge closed, wondering how much of his thoughts he should voice. Something had definitely happened to Berto, and it wasn't something as nice and safe as running off to visit his family, but right now he had no concrete theory on what had happened. There was a fight - but over what? And why? What happened afterwards? The fight in the house went no deeper than the foyer, unless the men took the time to straightened up any bumped furniture. They didn't clean up any blood, as he didn't smell any recently used cleanser.

Xander opened his beer and took a swig, and after a moment, asked, "This looks bad, doesn't it?"

Logan shrugged non-committally. "It's not as bad as it could have been."

"Funny how that's not comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be." He downed the rest of the beer in a couple of swallows, and tossed the empty bottle in the trash can under the sink (it had very little in it, but the coffee grounds, vegetable peels, and dog food cans were fermenting in a particularly noisome way) before heading off to the bedroom. Xander followed him, an obedient shadow radiating discomfort at breaking and entering into someone else's life. That made Logan wonder when he'd gotten used to it.

The bedroom was as austere as the front room and nearly half its size, a tiny space with room for a twin bed, a dresser and nightstand, and the built in closet, but nothing more. The bed wasn't made, but it wasn't that messy either; mussed was a more accurate description. The nightstand had no drawer, so he ignored it and went straight for the dresser. He'd just opened the top drawer when Xander exclaimed, "Whoa! Hey, I didn't think we were gonna paw through his stuff."

"I'm not pawin' through his stuff," he snapped, doing just that. He didn't care about his underwear and socks, which filled the drawer - he was looking for something else. "I'm looking for clues."

"Clues?"

"Some guys came here, fought with him, and then took off , with or without him. It wasn't a home invasion, it wasn't a robbery; those men had probably come here from him. And I bet he knew why, since he didn't want to get you involved in it. It caught up with him."

There was nothing but underwear in the first drawer, nothing taped to the bottom or the sides, so he moved on to drawer two. It was filled with shirts and some jeans at the bottom. Xander came inside the room after keeping a respectful distance, but he was studying the side of his face. "You're some kind of investigator. Or you were."

Not a question. "Unofficially, yeah, I suppose. I've been lookin' for myself for years."

"Is that a New Age thing?"

He shrugged a single shoulder, and found a small framed photograph of what must have been his family in Mexico, several years ago. Berto/Rodrigo was standing between a taller but visually similar guy (must have been the real Berto) and a more matronly looking woman whose face was unnaturally thin, a hallmark of a serious illness. A small little girl, maybe about twelve, was standing in front of the group, which was all gathered under the shade of a spreading palm. Xander came over, and he handed him the picture. He looked at it, grimacing as if he felt bad for them. "So were you a cop or something?" he asked, staying on the subject.

"Or something," he offered, moving on to the third drawer. Jackpot. This drawer didn't have clothes in it, but stuff - receipts, papers, letters, assorted tchotchkes. He found a letter from his mother, sent only two and a half weeks ago; it seemed to be the most recent.

It was written on lined notebook paper, in a scrawl that was alternately tight and cramped and loopy and sprawling - heavy meds? It was in Spanish, so when he started to scan it, Xander said, "I get the Dear Rodrigo, but then I'm lost. You read Spanish?"

That was such a stupid question he didn't bother to answer it. "It's just a standard letter from home; we're fine, weather's good, yadda yadda yadda. Her cancer's spread, which means he wasn't kidding about needing the money for hospital bills." Logan scowled, frustrated at the lack of genuine, helpful information. But at the very end of the letter, a P.S.: _'Any word from Esmerelda yet?'_

"Who's Esmerelda?" he asked Xander.

He thought about it a moment, then snapped his fingers. "That chick in the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And they said Disney never did anything to contribute to culture."

He scowled at him, and pointed to the P.S. portion of the letter. "Dumb jokes aside."

"Hell, I've got no idea. His sister's name is Mimi, so -"

"Esme; Mimi. That's a nickname." He was pretty sure that was it. He could be wrong, but he thought not. So his mother in Mexico was asking if he'd heard from Mimi _yet_ - meaning she wasn't home to ask. So where was Mimi? In the States too? Or just in another city?

"Okay, Sherlock, assuming you're right … so what?"

"So where is she? Did she come here? Did Berto ever mention his sister being in the States?"

Xander considered that as Logan pulled a bunch of personal letters out of the drawer and tossed them on the bed. He'd have to scan them all, see if there was anything more useful in them. "Uh, no. He didn't talk about her that much, actually. He just said something about getting her something for her birthday once."

"And sending it?" He ran his hand along the side of the drawers, felt nothing, and moved his hand to the bottom, sliding it across -

- hitting something. Now what was that?

"Shit, man, I don't know. I didn't pay that much attention; I couldn't hear that well anyways, we were taking out a wall that day. Why does it matter? What does it have to do with this?"

"Maybe nothing; maybe everything. The devil's always in the details, you just hafta know where to look for him." Logan crouched down and looked up at the bottom of the drawer. There was a small envelope duct taped to it, with a mark on the upper right corner that could have been a word. He worked his fingernails carefully around the edges of the tape, peeling it off gently so he didn't tear the envelope.

"Who the hell are you, Batman?" Xander snapped, then asked, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Found something." Finally he pulled it off - this tape had been here a while - and stood up, looking at the envelope in the light. Xander came over to see what he had. It was just a standard envelope, the kind you'd send a letter in, only it had the word "Matador" written in small, cramped letters in the corner. Inside of it was six hundred dollars in five one hundred dollar bills and two fifties. "Shit," Xander gasped, seeing the cash. "Maybe - maybe this was his savings. I'm not sure he had a bank account."

"If it was, he's an idiot - nearly every thief knows you check the bottom of the drawers."

"So you're a thief, is that it?"

He ignored him as he stared at the name: Matador. He was saving money for Matador? What was that … or who?

Xander scratched his head nervously and threw up his hands. "Why are we wasting time? There's nothing here but some blood and some letters from home. We need to be out looking for him. Maybe he's in a hospital; I didn't check the hospitals."

"Why don't you do that?" he pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.

"Who are you calling?"

"A friend. I need to find a bar where Mexican immigrants hang out. I have a name and I want to see what kind of response it gets."

Xander's brow furrowed in annoyance and confusion. "Whose name do you have?"

"Matador." It meant something to someone, beyond being a man who fought bulls. Now all he had to find out exactly what.

4

He thought being a vampire meant that his days of getting stomach aches was over; apparently not.

Angel sat up, clutching his stomach, groaning at the continued gnawing pain in his gut. It was like he hard indigestion, except he couldn't _have_ indigestion, not from pig's blood - or any kind of blood. What an awful, Human pain to have; as much as he would have liked to be Human again, this wasn't the aspect he wanted back right away.

He caught his breath, and the pain began to ebb, sliding into a low but odd burning sensation. The bedroom window was blacked out, forever hiding the sun, as was the window wall in the front room, although he had been nervous enough about the proximity of the bedroom window to put up heavy burgundy velvet curtains. All he needed was someone to break the window, and it was goodbye him, gone in a puff of smoke. The curtains were at least a second line of defense in that unlikely circumstance.

Because he couldn't tell the time of day by light, he'd hung a digital clock with a large read out beside the window, a way of instantly knowing how long he had until he could get moving again. It was only a quarter to one, according to the big red letters of the clock, meaning he'd only been asleep for about five hours - he got home late, after the sun had gone up technically, but he managed to get into the building through a currently unused sewer tunnel. He could use it to leave in the daytime, get to the office, but not easily; the tunnel had been partially filled in, so he had to squeeze through it. The opening was barely big enough for him to slip through, so it wasn't his ideal mode of travel if he could at all avoid it.

He was only sleeping in boxers, so he was able to look at his stomach, scan for any inadvertent scrapes on his stomach that he wasn't aware of, ones he got slipping in through the tunnel. There was nothing, though; his skin was unmarred, so if he'd ever been cut it had already healed. God, he was tired.

He laid back down, staring up at the ceiling. There was something wrong with him, and he knew it. He figured he should call Giles, let him know that something had happened to him, even if he wasn't sure what, when, or why.

That's when the pain started.

It was sudden and so sharp he felt like he'd been stabbed, and looking down, he saw blades poking up through his stomach, making shadows on his skin. The flesh ripped as he watched, and he saw they weren't blades, but long, claw like fingernails attached to slender, pale fingers. There was no real pain, just an odd, hot sensation as an entire arm came out of him, in violation of all known laws of physics - metaphysical and otherwise - and then a second arm came out. His entire abdomen split down the middle, right up to his breastbone, a grotesque parody of a Caesarian section, although the lack of blood was as inexplicable as it was disconcerting.

A head and shoulders emerged, pushing up through his stomach and out, and the thing he had somehow birthed looked straight down at him, his red eyes burning with hate, his tooth filled, distorted mouth curved up in a sneer. "Well, I knew you'd be good for something someday," the Master said, his tone dripping with mocking disdain.

Angel jolted awake, a strangled noise caught in his throat. It wasn't a scream, but it wanted to be. What the hell was that?

He told himself it was just a dream - and it was; his chest wasn't split crotch to throat, and the Master wasn't waving at him from the hollow of his stomach - but it felt real. Too real. If he dismissed this as just a nightmare, he knew he'd regret it.

When was the last time he'd thought about the Master? He couldn't even remember, it had been so long, but then again, he'd been _dead_ for so long. He shouldn't worry about it for that reason, except experience taught him that things that weren't just dead but totally obliterated didn't always stay that way - look at what happened with Darla. Dead didn't always mean dead; hell, it rarely meant dead nowadays, or so it seemed.

As much as he didn't like to think about it or admit, he wasn't actually "just" Angel - what the hell was Angel anyways? An amalgamation of a (dead) Human with a soul and a soulless demon, neither Human or demon but an uncomfortable combination of the two, with the soul in the driver's seat but the demon in charge of everything else. The demon in him kept him going, gave him the ability to fight and survive, whether he liked it or not. A demon tied by blood to that hideous malformation known as the Master. Technically a vampire more powerful than him, although his demon still wouldn't admit that.

And the worst part? His stomach did kind of hurt.

He sat up, hand on his abdomen, and wondered if his past was coming back to bite him on the ass. Again.

* * *

Xander went off to call the hospitals on Berto's phone (in the kitchen), leaving him alone in the bedroom. He sat on the end of the unmade bed and sifted through letters as he dialed the number of the Way Station. He got lucky, as just the person he wanted to speak to answered the phone (he'd girded his loins for Lia and her bitter venom). "Hey Hel, how's it going?"

"Same old shit," she replied off hand. "How's the old man?"

Logan knew she didn't mean him; she meant Bob. "Haven't you heard from him?"

"Lately? No, I think you have that over me, you home wrecking bastard."

He grimaced, unfolding another letter. "Sorry about that. You know it ain't on purpose."

She sighed heavily. "Yeah, I know. He'd just better get his ass back here soon, or send me a sign or something. Otherwise I'm gonna start selling his stuff. Speaking of which, I've noticed you haven't darkened my towels lately."

"I've gotta girlfriend."

"So? You have my boyfriend's energy in you - you owe me at least a nostalgia fuck."

He did his best not to laugh, but she startled it out of him. He quickly stifled it, hoping Xander was too busy arguing with receptionists to hear. "I'll get back to you on that."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. You're just being a lazy bastard now. So what're you calling for if not to jump my bones? We got some ass to kick?"

"Maybe; I'm not sure. I'm wondering if you knew where Mexican immigrants - Human ones - hung out, away from the gringos."

"Like a bar? I can think of a couple. Why?"

This is why he knew he should talk to Helga. If she didn't know something, she could find someone who did know; Bob not only sold weapons, he sold information. The Way Station was a front for arms and information brokering. Knowledge was power, but it was also a weapon in the right hands, which Bob and Helga alike knew better than almost anyone. "This guy's missing, Mexican immigrant here under his brother's visa, and the only clues I have to go on are some blood and an envelope with the name Matador on it. I was hoping someone would -"

"Matador?" Hel interrupted. She sounded surprised. "The coyote?"

"What?" Coyote was a slang term for guys who smuggled people over the border. A lot of them were the worst kind of scumbags. "You know him?"

"He's kinda notorious in underground circles," Hel continued. It sounded like Thrak was gargling a story to someone in the background, over the sound of the jukebox. "A complete fuck, even among that breed."

Logan stared at the money in the envelope. Berto was saving money for Matador? Why? To smuggle his sister across the border? No, that made no sense; he was here under a legal visa (whether he was the guy technically named on the visa or not), and it was quite possible he could smuggle her through a border crossing if he wanted to. If Mimi was here, what was the money for? "Know where I can find him?"

She snorted a laugh. "I dunno. Check the border crossings, the piers, any of the secret sweatshops near Oakland. How the feds haven't nailed this guy I have no idea. Pays to be wealthy, huh?"

He grunted in agreement, but was hardly listening anymore. Matador was a human trafficker, an exploiter of the worst kind, and he really _hated_ traffickers. He was so angry he was having a hard time keeping thoughts straight in his head.

If the Matador had his men come after Berto for some reason, he was probably dead - not killed here, but elsewhere, probably never to be found. Erased from the face of the earth as if he'd never existed.

But he had existed, and Logan was going to know why he had been killed. It didn't matter that he didn't know Soto at all - he knew these kind of men. And he was going to make the Matador sorry he was ever born.


	4. Chapter 4

14 Years Ago - Cooper City, Yukon

It apparently was true that once your luck turned shitty, it never let up.

Logan's truck had barely made it here, the transmission making noises suggesting that it was a few hours away from death, and he knew he didn't have the money to fix it. He didn't have the money to buy another truck either, which was his only other alternative, because you weren't going anywhere without a transmission. He figured he could get some under the table pipeline work - dirty, hard, but it paid reasonably well for an off the books venture - only to find that all that work had been shut down. It seemed some asshole had fucked up and caused an accident (there was some property damage, but no one was hurt too badly), which made the company and the government do an audit of business practices along the pipeline. Meaning no more off the book work, at least for now. So he was well and truly fucked.

What were you supposed to do for money when you had no official identity whatsoever? He could make up names as much as he liked, but he had no way to prove it to anyone. You could get good fake i.d.'s, but they were extremely expensive, and he hated dealing with those black market assholes. And he usually didn't have the money to waste anyways.

Like now. He had thirty five dollars to his name, he was in the Yukon with a dying truck, and autumn was about to give way to winter. He didn't want to get stuck in the Yukon for winter, not this far up North, as he'd never get out, probably not until spring, and he didn't like getting caught anywhere for an extended length of time. He hadn't quite figured out what he was running from yet, but it kept itching at the back of his mind, and it only got worse the longer he stayed in one place. He got this feeling not unlike panic when he thought about lingering in a place for a while. During that blizzard that shut down the pass, he spent a week at a motel (the truck was just too fucking cold even for him), and by the end he was crazed with paranoia. He kept expecting faceless men in dark suits to burst through the door and shoot him down somehow, paralyze him and carry him off, perhaps entomb him in that water that tasted of blood and chemicals, cut him open like a frog in a science class.

Who were they? What had they done to him? Why was he so fucking scared all the time? Hell, what the fuck was his full name? Who was he, and why did they think they had to do that to him? What had he done?

Some part of him figured he'd been a criminal, but what could he have done that was so bad that they thought they could treat him like that? (Whoever "they" were.) Maybe he was better off not knowing. But ignorance wasn't stopping the nightmares.

That's why he was in this sad bar, nursing a beer that tasted vaguely of piss, as bad country music played faintly in the background from a jukebox in the back, near a couple of truckers playing a bad game of eight ball on the only pool table. There was a small t.v. on over the bar, but the reception was poor, and the football game on it was a jumbled collection of disembodied heads and legs. Logan found himself eating all the beer nuts in the bowl on the bar, which was funny since he didn't like beer nuts. But he was tired and hungry - when did he last eat? Must have been yesterday sometime, but he couldn't remember. He'd been without sleep for a while, and things were starting to blur together into an unrecognizable smear. He was probably going to have to give in and sleep; there was always a time when he had to give up.

What the fuck was he going to do? He couldn't be stuck here over the winter. But where was he supposed to find the cash to do anything?

He found himself crushing peanuts with the bottom of his beer mug, when the door slapped open, pushed by the gusting wind (it had been gusting and then dying for absolutely no reason all day), and an arguing couple came in. People arguing was nothing new, it seemed to be a hobby in this part of Canada, but the fact that one of them was a woman was new. He hadn't seen a woman all day; there probably weren't many in this place, which was just a glorified pit stop along the Alaskan Highway.

The woman was nothing special, kind of mousy with a windburned face and stringy hair, and her partner was no looker either, a pudgy guy who carried his arms like a gorilla, elbows bowed out. The guy had probably boxed at some time in his life; he rolled his shoulders when he walked, just like a fighter.

Even the bartender didn't look up as they came in shouting, so he figured they were locals known for their arguments. He went back to crushing peanuts and feeling sorry for himself, wondering what he was going to do.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the harsh sound of flesh on flesh. He snapped his head around in time to see the woman sagging against the wall, grabbing her face, as the guy continued to shout at her. Again there was no surprise on anyone's behalf, suggesting this was just part of the regular show.

But the guy's shouting was really grating on his nerves, and he hated to see anyone get beat on for no reason, especially a woman. He gulped down most of his beer and slid off his stool, nearing the happy couple as he grabbed her by the hair and threatened to slap some sense into her. He smacked the guy in the back of the head, just a slap, just enough to get his attention.

He turned slowly, muscles bunching in his forearms as his hands curled into fists. "Didn't anyone ever teach ya to pick on people your own size?" Logan asked, taking a step back to give them room.

"Stay the fuck outta this," the guy snarled, upper lip curling.

But Logan had decided he really didn't like this guy's ugly mug, his little piggy eyes, and his smell, which was just this side of rendered hog fat left behind a radiator. Also, he was having a really shitty week, and he felt like taking it out on something. "No." Looks like it was this guy's shitty week now.

He threw a punch, but Logan saw it coming the instant he decided to move; it was almost funny. He decided to dodge the punch, which he did easily, and decided he didn't want this fight to end so quickly. He kicked his leg out from under him as he stumbled in the wake of the missed punch, and then gave his back a shove, sending him belly flopping onto the nearest table. A table leg snapped under his sudden weight, and they both went tumbling down.

He chuckled to himself, feeling better already. "I'm not sure they make dance partners small enough for you."

"Take it outside!" the bartender snapped.

"Leave Frank the fuck alone," one of the peanut gallery said, trying to nail him from behind. But he felt his heavy footsteps, and Logan turned as he charged, catching his punch as he threw it, twisting his arm around and under until something cracked. The guy's eyes went so wide he thought they might fall out.

Someone grabbed him from behind, so he let the guy go and shot his head back hard, his skull connecting violently with some man's teeth. He felt pieces of them hit him, blood splatter the back of his neck as the guy cursed like he had a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Sumabeeh!"

As the guy with broken teeth reeled away, Frank - as that must have been the guy with the startlingly good manners - sucker punched Logan right in the kidneys, not even facing him for the hit. Fucking coward! That, and it sent a sharp pain knifing through his body, enough that he knew he'd piss blood next time he took a leak, and that really pissed him off. His reaction was all reflex, a sharp elbow that caught Frank in the breadbasket, and as he doubled over, Logan spun and punched him right in the face, landing a solid shot to the eye. He pulled it out of reflex, not because he wanted to so he didn't shatter the guy's eye socket, but that sucker would probably swell shut in no time flat. Frank reeled back and fell into one of the trucker's, who was either trying to stop the fight or get in on it (too early to tell, really).

The other trucker had no reservations. He smashed the pool cue over his head, which Logan realized when it snapped in half and tumbled to the ground in front of him. He'd barely felt the hit, but then again, metal skull - it would take something with a lot more heft to really make a dent.

He turned, giving him the evil eye, and the trucker backed up a step, realizing belatedly he'd made a big mistake. He made to hit him with the rest of the cue, but Logan ripped it out of his hand, and held up the jagged end. "Wanna see where this will fit?"

"I said take it the fuck outside!" the bartender bellowed, punctuating this by throwing an empty glass on the floor. The shatter made them all look at him, and the double barreled shotgun he'd now pulled out from beneath the counter. He swiveled the aim between all of them, and added, "I mean it! Now!"

Logan smirked and shook his head, figuring he'd gotten his entertainment. He tossed the broken pool cue away, and started shoving his way through guys to the door. Some looked at him stunned, while others took a step back, eyes wide in shock. He didn't need to be a mind reader to know what they were thinking: _"Why isn't he hurt?" _It was a pretty debilitating shot to the kidneys, even if you didn't count the thing with the pool cue. But the pain from the kidney shot had faded away in a flush of heat. Oh, he'd still piss blood once, but it was over. Things like that just didn't stick.

(Is that what those people had done to him? They put metal in his body, and gave him the ability to heal from anything? Was he some kind of medical experiment?)

At the door, he turned and looked back at the great unwashed crowd. "C'mon, you pansies, what're you waitin' for? I'm just gettin' warmed up."

Frank was conscious yet dazed, but seemed to have no desire to get up off the floor. And if he wasn't going to press it, this fight was over.

Too bad. He hadn't even shown them his knives yet.

There was no place else to drink in this town, so he went to the general store and blew some cash on a six pack and a pre-made sandwich, figuring he could use the fuel. He went back to his truck, parked in the lot behind the town's only garage, and sat in the back, eating his food and reading a book he'd actually found in the garbage behind a bar in Edmonton. Who the hell threw away a book? Yeah, it was just a mass market paperback, but seriously, that was just ... well, he didn't know what, exactly, but it was just as bad if not worse than beating up rednecks for sport.

Although he'd have sworn he'd never seen this book before - it was a crime thriller type novel - it seemed familiar once he started reading it, almost like deja vu. Had he read it before, or was it just so true to its genre it seemed familiar? Not that Elmore Leonard was bad or all that stereotypical, it was just that the inexplicable sense of deja vu bugged the shit out of him. He could remember next to nothing about himself ... but he remembered a book? Seemed unfair somehow. He finished off the sandwich in four bites, confirming that he was indeed starving. He should try and keep better track of things like that.

It was a frigid day, it had never gotten out of the high single digits, which was unusual for this time of year in the Yukon no matter what people generally thought. It did warm up here from time to time, and when it did, those typically snowy wastelands became postcard pretty verdant fields and wildflower covered meadows. It almost seemed like a different country.

But now the meadows were dormant, died down for the inevitable frost, and even in the back of his truck he could see his breath in billowy white clouds. His lantern gave off some heat as well as light, but he'd already taken to shrugging a blanket on his shoulders, his heavy army surplus one that was a bit scratchy but very warm. He didn't look forward to sleeping out here when the temperatures hit the lower single digits, or dipped into the negatives. Oh, he'd done it before, he'd had worse (he could still remember waking up in the snow, so cold that metal had actually frozen to his skin ... but he didn't get frostbite. He was so cold he felt like he wanted to die, but his body still wouldn't allow him to stay dead), but he didn't like it. It always seemed to bring up bad memories, discomfort factor aside.

He was on his second beer when he heard noise out in the parking lot.

The garage was closed for the weekend, so there was no way it could be them. The guys from the bar track him down for round two? Fine. Some action would warm him up anyways.

He peeked through the curtain dividing the front from the back, and saw a man he'd never seen before near the front of the cab, attempting to peer in through the window. Or, wait, had he seen him before?

He realized there was a man at the bar who'd shown no interest in the fight. He'd been sitting at a back table, swathed in shadows, watching the fray but never getting involved. This was him.

Logan popped the back door open and got out, figuring surprised was ruined, but now they were on equal ground. (Well, for a millisecond.) He slammed the door and went towards the front, saying, "You wanna throw down? Fine, but let's do it away from my -"

There was a second man. He'd been standing near the garage, but now he took a step forward, hands buried deep in the pockets of his tweed Burberry overcoat, trying hard to look like he wasn't freezing his nuts off. His mind instantly started analyzing the pockets, trying to figure out if he was hiding a gun, but another part of his mind emphasized the coat - a Burberry coat! Who the fuck even owned one of those in an armpit like Cooper City?

He was also older then most of the rednecks, in his late forties with neatly comb grey-white hair, like a fall of snow on his scalp. It made him look more dignified than old. "We're not here to fight," the man said, and he had a clipped, dignified accent. Not British, but not Canadian either; still, somewhere in the colonial group.

The quiet man from the bar stood by the cab of his truck, but hadn't made a hostile move. Something about him just screamed "lackey". He looked between them warily, and asked, "What're you here for then?"

The man smiled, but there was something very clinical about it, designed to be reassuring by focus groups. "We're here to offer you a job."

* * *

" - and so that's when I decided to go ahead and fuck the whole soccer team," Helga said.

Logan started, and almost looked at the cell phone. "What?"

"See, I knew that'd get you back. Where'd you go?"

"I didn't go anywhere. When'd you fuck a soccer team?" Xander had come back from calling hospitals at that moment, but upon hearing that he turned smoothly and walked away before he could come in the door. Cute.

Helga sighed impatiently. "I didn't. I was trying to get you back from lala land, or wherever you floated off to."

This was starting to get really irritating. "I've been here, Hel. I haven't gone anywhere."

"Uh huh. So what did I say before I mentioned fucking the team?"

He did his best to remember, and found himself at a loss. Damn it. "Fine, okay, I was thinking about something."

"I'll say you were. And judging from how testy you sound, it wasn't a happy thought either. You do have happy thoughts, right?"

"Very funny. So where does this Matador or his men hang out?"

"I dunno." He heard her cover the phone, and say, "Thrak - where do Matador or his goons hang out?"

"Why are you asking him?"

"He's a cab driver, remember?" she hissed.

Yeah, he was, but he was a demon cab driver. He didn't do Humans, did he? Some of them might notice that their diver was a pile of slime, unless they were very drunk. But then again, it was L.A. - it was quite possible that people were so jaded they might never notice or care.

After a moment of slightly obscene gargling, Hel got back on the line. "Okay, he says your best bet is Gaucho's on the East Side. Anybody on the Human gangster circuit makes an appearance there eventually, although he says as far as he knows the Matador's never been there."

"But his men have?"

"Oh yeah. They have an illegal cockfighting ring in the basement."

Cockfighting? Jesus, these guys were fucking princes. "PETA hasn't been informed?" he replied sarcastically.

"Unless Pamela Anderson can bludgeon all of them into submission with her tits, I think they're going to get their asses stomped into compost if they are."

That would almost be worth the price of admission. He rubbed his eyes and sighed, deciding on a rudimentary but surely effective plan. "Okay, thanks, I owe ya."

"You owe me more than one. You owe me some midnight skinny dipping, breakfast - which you are cooking - and a late night involving dinner, drinks, and handcuffs."

He shook his head and sighed, but he couldn't but smile in spite of everything. "And what if Bob comes back?"

"You can cook him breakfast too."

He should have guessed that. "Thanks for the info. I'll get back to you."

"Damn right you will. Don't get your fool ass killed."

"I'll try not to," he assured her, cutting the connection. He shoved the phone back in his pocket and collected the personal letters on the bed, dumping them back in the drawer en masse. There was no mention of the Matador or anything even remotely connected to him, nor was there much mention of Esmerelda. If Berto was involved with the Matador, he wouldn't tell his mother anyways, so this was a waste of time.

Could Berto have been working for the Matador? He considered how well built he was, muscular, and he knew it was possible. Xander said he was a nice guy - "Padre" - but Logan knew almost better than anyone that you couldn't take people at face value. Who didn't have some awful, dark secret in their past? Xander probably had one; he probably had one that none of his "Scooby gang" friends knew about. No matter how close you were to someone, did you ever really know them?

Maybe if you were a telepath. But even then, that was doubtful. Xavier liked to think he knew him, but Logan honestly thought that he didn't, that his mind was such a scary place that he wasn't even close. Not that he blamed him. There were times when Logan didn't want to know himself either.

He found Xander perched uncomfortably on the edge of the loveseat, working on his beer. When he emerged into the living room, he fixed him with a skeptical look. "You know someone who fucked a soccer team?"

"No, she just said that to get my attention."

He scoffed. "What, '_Hey you' _was too routine?"

He couldn't help but smirk. "Prob'ly. She ain't a routine kinda gal."

"So … I guess asking for her number will just lead to hideous disappointment?"

He shrugged. "She doesn't really go out with Humans."

"She a demon?"

"Yep. She's Maximum Bob's girlfriend, Helga, a Stansin demon."

He considered that, scratching his head as he thought. "Stansin … not ringing a bell. They're not big bugs, are they?"

"Bugs? Hardly. They're Humanoids, strong, but generally peaceful. Although the female of the species is far more lethal than the male."

"Isn't that always the case?" he replied, with a big stupid grin. As soon as his joke fell flat, he sighed and stood, his shoulders never straightening. "The hospitals were no help at all. But I bet you knew that already."

"I guessed. But I have a lead I can follow."

"Great, what are we doing?"

He fixed him with a hard stare. "I said I, as in me. You're not in on this."

Xander met his glare with one of his own. "He's my friend, not yours."

"Yeah, but what I gotta do I gotta do alone. "

He shook his head slowly. "No, I'm not being left out of this. I'm seeing this through."

"You can't do this. Well, you can, but only if you have a death wish."

He got a stubborn look on his face that made him look ten years younger. "So what is this grand plan of yours?"

How much of this should he tell him? He hadn't done anything yet to prove he couldn't take it, so maybe he should just give him the benefit of the doubt. "Matador's a coyote, a Human trafficker who's worse than most of 'em, but I have no bead on where I can find him. So I'm gonna go where his men are and introduce myself."

The influx of information left him looking a little stunned as he chewed it all over. He could see questions in his eyes (eye), but he seemed to realize now was not the time to ask, or perhaps he decided he really didn't want to know that badly. "Which means what exactly?"

Logan didn't mean to smirk, but he couldn't help it. It was just too funny. "Which means by tonight, I'm gonna be tops on the Matador's personal most wanted list."

It was just basic reasoning. If you couldn't find the guy, make him find you. And if you had a little fun while doing it, it was just a bonus.

5

Something was wrong with Angel.

It was the weirdest thing. Bren was sure his guilt and anxiety showed on his face, so he was trying very hard to maintain a Saddiq expression (which was the best poker face in the universe - the guy gave you absolutely nothing to work with most of the time), all the time mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Angel in his head. And he had to talk to Angel; he couldn't talk to Giles about this. Oh sure, he was a really nice guy (and really not bad looking for an older dude; certainly his accent was kind of sexy), but he couldn't imagine sitting him down and saying: _"So, you remember that good looking vampire I met at Syn, the one who turned us towards Silver Sun? I think he's somebody's pawn, meant to keep tabs on me, so I've been fucking him, but lately his M.O. has changed. What do you think about playing along and meeting him?"_

He could just imagine the look Giles would give him. Apoplectic probably didn't begin to cover it.

Not that Angel would be thrilled - in fact, he expected to get an angry lecture - but Angel was generally more forgiving of transgressions. (Although calling this a transgression was probably a bit of a stretch.) The more he thought about this, though, the stupider it sounded. What the fuck did he think he was doing? This thing with Kier could only end badly and horribly, and he was basically becoming the cold blooded bastard that he thought other demons were. But maybe Angel could help him there too - he'd done questionable things in his life; if anyone could understand, it would be him. If he wanted to slap some sense into him, he wouldn't have minded. After all, Angel had at least one free hit coming, since Bren had punched him after his mother died. (A discussion he kept putting off. And here was another reason to put it off even longer.)

He got to the office first, to find the phone ringing. It turned out that they actually had a potential client coming in this afternoon, a guy who felt he was being stalked by some kind of actual ghoul. Either he was completely nuts - a possibility they couldn't discount until they met him and heard his story - or they had someone whose check would keep them in coffee and jelly doughnuts for another two weeks. Either way, it gave them something to do.

Giles was the next person to show up, with Naomi in tow. " - very impressive," Giles said as he came in the door. He was carrying a quiver of big arrows, and she was carrying a longbow that wouldn't have been out of place at a Renfest. Apparently they'd been out at some kind of range - did a shooting range let you bring arrows? - where Naomi was showing him her ability with a long bow. Apparently she was very good, which would be great when they were up against the Sheriff of Nottingham's men.

They chatted happily amongst themselves while getting tea (they both preferred tea to coffee), and Bren noticed Naomi had dyed her hair a new color. She'd been experimenting with temporary rinses for the last couple of weeks, and today she chose bright green highlights, the color of a Slime demon's blood. Still, it looked good on her, even if she was technically a bit old for such a thing. (Not that he'd ever say that; he didn't relish getting electrocuted.)

Finally they noticed he was at the desk, and as soon as they acknowledged his presence, he told them about the guy coming in this afternoon. They listened, and once he was done, Giles asked, "What type of ghoul? Did he specify?"

Bren just stared at him. "Yes, he said it was a Romanian Krisjuk. _No_, he didn't specify; he's just freaked out. He could be bugfuck for all we know. I figured it was best if we got him in here and sized up his sanity."

Giles frowned at him, probably for the use of language, but nodded sagely. "Seems the best idea."

Naomi put her longbow back behind the sofa, and said, "Even if he's nuts, we can sprinkle some sage around, say something in pig Latin, and tell him its gone. It'll give him peace of mind, and we'll get cab fare home."

"Naomi," Giles said warningly.

"What? Come on, I'm not talking about fleecing the guy. What's the price of peace of mind?"

It was a good defense, but he didn't think Giles would buy it.

Before the conversation could get more interesting, Angel came in, but he barely acknowledged anybody before heading straight back into his private office and shutting the door. Naomi stared at the door. "Well, hello to you too, Mister Sunshine."

He stomped by so fast it was impossible to get a good look at him, but Bren had that damn eidetic memory; he could slow down, rewind, and fast forward the memory as much as he wanted, examine it from all angles. And in replaying the memory, he could see Angel had a patina of sweat glistening on his forehead. Since when did vampires sweat? He didn't know that they couldn't, but he'd never seen it before, and he honestly thought he would have. Temperature didn't mean anything to them, right? So wouldn't sweat go the way of their circulatory system?

It was a minor detail, something that probably didn't mean anything, but it bugged him. Something was up with Angel, and frankly, that wasn't good. It wasn't just that he was their boss, because that was kind of not true - they were a team, and he figured Angel would admit as much. The problem was, Angel was the most lethal of all of them. If something was going bad with him, they could all be in so much serious fucking trouble it wouldn't be remotely funny.

Somebody was going to have to bite the bullet here. And he was the only demon in the room, the one with the unpalatable blood and the unbreakable neck. He supposed this meant it fell to him, whether he liked it or not. "I'll bring him some coffee," he said, getting up and heading for the coffeemaker.

So maybe his problem with Kier was put on hold now. Unless, of course, there was a connection.

Wait a minute - was there?

* * *

It was too early in the day for Gaucho's to be full, but there was actually a good sized crowd in the place. Not that it made any difference to Logan.

A bouncer tried to stop him from going downstairs, so he put his head through the wall and continued on. Another two guys setting up the cockfighting pit in the basement attacked him, and he took them down easily, punching one guy in the face so hard he instantly broke his nose and cheekbone, and the other he scared shitless by putting his claws through the fleshy part of his side, a wound that bled a lot but wasn't even remotely serious. "Get the fuck out if you don't wanna die," he growled at him, showing him the claws still dripping with his own blood. The man tried to say something, but he seemed to forget how to speak. Then he ran for the stairs, tromping up them two at a time.

Logan had taken down a wall and broken through all the cages (there were no chickens here yet, but the place reeked of chicken shit and blood - must have been a bout last night) by the time a large posse of big men with even bigger guns showed up.

Finally. If this was the response time of all the Matador's men, how did he ever get to be such a big noise?


	5. Chapter 5

"What the fuck is your problem, gringo?" one of the men asked. He aimed a nine millimeter down at him from the top of the stairs, holding it sideways in the way that was the fashion now for those who thought it was cool. It was idiotic, of course, and Logan wondered if he should mention it.

"I have a message for Matador. Tell him Wolverine is going to take him down … if you live."

Some of them chuckled, and the guy with the gun just smirked. "You're very scary. Too bad you don't have a gun." He fired his weapon, and several of his pals also fired their weapons.

His best guess was nearly ten rounds were fired, but even from this range, only two hit (morons). One hit him in the gut, passing through him, nicking his intestines (he figured - it hit something that caused pain followed by savage, healing factor burning) before exiting out the back, and the other hit him in the forehead, just over his left eye.

It was a hard hit, but the round was probably nine millimeter, not enough to knock him out. Still, it did make his head jerk back, and it felt like he'd been hit with something heavy - not an anvil, but hardly a pillow. Something smack in between that.

He went with the momentum and fell, landing hard on his back on the poured concrete floor. Even though he was down and playing dead, some of them shot him a couple of more times, proving they were total ball-less wonders. (or he'd freaked them out; perhaps a bit of both), and out of the couple shots that hit him, they were generally in the extremities, passing through with a slight burning sensation or bouncing off his bones. He didn't react, but his body jerked at the impacts.

He heard them come down the stairs, steps heavy and slow, some still laughing, others commenting amongst themselves on the stupid gringo. "Gotta be fucking nuts," the lead guy (call him Mongo) commented to the others. "Who the fuck takes us on alone and unarmed?"

"Maybe he thought we belonged to some fucking Italian Mafiosos or somethin'," one guy speculated.

Some of them gathered around him, but others walked off to see the damage he'd done. He guessed by footsteps and scent (there was that stinky aftershave! Son of a bitch, that guy was here!) that he was dealing with nine men. Four standing around him (Mongo included), and five off triaging the damage. "Jesus Christ!" one of the triage team said. "How could one man do this so fast?"

"Where are his tools?" Another man asked, on the other side of the basement.

"Huh?" Mongo replied.

"His tools. To take out this wall and the cages, he needed a maul or a cutting tool. You see any?"

The burning was over; he was fully healed, with only a taste of blood in the back of his throat, a ringing in his ears, and an acrid tang of cordite and bad aftershave filling his nostrils. Now it was time to move. He opened his eyes and shot out his hand, popping his claws and driving them clear through Mongo's lower leg, shattering his kneecap. "You mean these?" he said, as Mongo let out a breathless kind of scream that was more a squeak of pain, and Logan did a sweep kick that took two other goons legs right out from under them.

As they were falling on their asses, Logan withdrew his claws from Mongo's leg and rolled away as the other near by men opened fire, then jumped up to his feet, both set of claws out now, and slashed at the men with guns. He got their weapons, and sometimes their hands and arms, although nothing was completely severed; he just wanted to make a serious impression at this point. If they chose to press the issue, then dismemberment would enter the scene.

Others in the basement shot at him, but it was a small enclosed space and they were shooting out of panic, so they ended up shooting each other, a situation so tragically pathetic it was laughable. One thug got shot in the face before Logan could shred the gun he was aiming at him.

The basement stank of fear as much as cordite as he took the rest of them down, retracting his claws only long enough to punch them, to shatter their noses and knock them senseless to the floor. He wanted to put the fear of him into them, he wanted them reporting hysterically incorrect details (the dead couldn't do that) and most were so reliant on the weapons that had never failed them before (guns), they didn't even try and fight him with anything else. Not that they had time to do so; it was such a surprisingly fast fight, it seemed like an exaggeration to call it one. A couple of slashes, punches, and kicks, and he had everyone down and bleeding, or down and unconscious (except for the guy who got the friendly fire in the face - if his brains on the wall were any indication, he was down and dead). They just weren't used to men who got shot in the head getting up and causing trouble. He'd taken a couple more bullets, but nowhere major.

Mongo was laying on the floor, clutching his bleeding leg and trying not to scream, but he was able to pull a second gun as Logan came around again, trying to sift through the scents of blood and gunpowder and fear to find the guy with the hideous aftershave. As he swiped the gun out of his hand, shredding it and taking off part of one of his fingers, he realized the stench was coming from Mongo. Perfect.

He planted a firm kick in his chest, breaking a couple of Mongo's ribs and sending him crashing onto his back as Logan heard rapid thudding upstairs - people abandoning the bar, as they didn't want to get caught in a firefight, and others probably going for reinforcements. He couldn't assume he had a lot of time here.

Logan crouched down, planting a knee on Mongo's chest, right on his ribcage for maximum pain, and retracted all but one claw, which he made sure Mongo saw before he drove it straight through his left ear, nailing his head to the floor. He squeaked, trying very hard to swallow the scream, his eyes wide and watering.

"Am I scary enough now?" he growled down into his face, twisting the claw in his ear ever so slightly. "Now understand you're gonna lose an ear. Whether you lose a lung, your other ear, your dick, a kidney, and your other kneecap is totally up to you. I know you went to Alberto Soto's house over the weekend. What I want to know is why, why was he killed, and where his body is right now. You lie to me, I will know, and you will lose more body parts. I'll leave you a limbless, emasculated stump if I have to, but I ain't gonna kill ya, because I want you to live with it. I want you to have a long, fucking miserable and useless life."

He snarled through the pain, ignoring the tears streaming down his face, and muttered, "Fuck you." He punctuated that by spitting up at him, hitting the tip of his chin with his bloody spittle.

Logan ripped his claw through his ear, severing the lobe. Mongo bit the inside of his own cheek to prevent a scream, especially when Logan stabbed the claw through what was left of his ear, and put a bit more weight on his chest, pressing his knee down harder on his broken rib. His breathing became labored, the rib was probably poking into one of his lungs now, and that's what he wanted. When people couldn't breathe, and got the sense that maybe they were never going to be able to breathe again, it was hard not to panic; it was damn near impossible, because your body made you. The body got desperate, every cell in it screaming at you to get oxygen when you couldn't. It set off a little rat in your brain, a raw, gnawing hysteria that could drive you crazy. And Logan felt he knew that since he could still remember the pain of being drowned.

"You're a freak," he wheezed, righteous anger starting to fade in the growing panic for air. "A fuckin' freak."

"Uh huh. Who else would call themselves Wolverine?" He ripped another piece off his ear and drove a claw in the little bit that was now left. Mongo held firmly onto the wrist of that hand, but wasn't strong enough to force him away, certainly not now. Maybe before the fight, before he lost so much blood and got so severely beaten down. "You have five seconds to start talking," he told him coldly, showing him his other hand and popping the claws right in front of his eyes before resting the tips on his forehead, just above his eyes. He reeked of fear now, his pupils shrunk to pinprinks, and he was panting for breath, his skin flushing red beneath his natural tan. "Or I start performin' plastic surgery. I'm gonna make you as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside. Talk."

"Soto was nothing!" he spat indignantly, as if he couldn't understand why anyone would give a damn.

"Five … four …" he dug the tips of his claws into his flesh, just enough to make blood trickle into his eyes.

Logan kind of hoped he didn't talk. Mongo hadn't hurt enough yet.

* * *

Xander had been around long enough to know when someone wasn't telling him something. And the scary guy with the bad hair obviously was holding back something about Berto, something he either suspected or discovered, but he didn't know how to make him tell him without setting him off.

If he was high strung he could deal with it; Anya had given him lots of experience with the high strung individual. But Logan was just plain weird. He simmered; he sat back quietly glowering, a radiator of potential destruction, and he could just suddenly go off, with little warning. He was neither high strung or low key, he was somewhere in the middle - a potential catastrophe waiting to happen. In other words, a time bomb; he was the Human equivalent of a grenade. Whenever he was quiet, it just meant he was ticking. He hadn't gone off yet, but you could be damn sure he would eventually.

Faith picked some real winners, didn't she?

He knew he wasn't supposed to follow him here, but he did, because he had to know. He stayed far back, though, and didn't enter the bar, for a couple of reasons. 1) Logan's plan was so suicidal and idiotic there was no way it could be his real plan. 2) If it _was_ his real plan, he was a suicidal crazy person, and he didn't want to be in the vicinity of Logan when he either got his wish, or went off completely. Also, he didn't know how good his "super-smelling" thing was, so he parked around the corner and walked around, long after he must have went inside. (A week ago, the whole idea of "super-smelling" would have been laughable, right up there with the superheroic ability to remove lint from socks with the power of your mind. But now that he'd seen it in person - if Logan was being totally honest and not just making shit up- super-smelling was deeply creepy.)

Shortly after he arrived on the corner, the gunshots started.

He wasn't sure they were gunshots, not at first. They were highly muffled, faint "pops", like someone setting off fireworks beneath the street, but he knew that wasn't it. His stomach knotted up, and he was grateful when they stopped. He still hated guns; yes, he had one, but that's only because the fear eventually got to him, the one that told him some day he'd encounter a demon that didn't give a damn about stakes or holy water, After everything he'd been through, he didn't want to get taken down by a random demon encounter - it wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going down that way. (Willow had told him he was getting morbid in his old age. But after everything they'd both been through, didn't they deserve to be a bit morbid?)

When Logan told him his plan - reluctantly - and Xander was more or less convinced he was semi-serious, he exclaimed that someone would shoot him. Logan snorted and replied, "They're _all_ gonna shoot me," as casually as if he had actually said "They're _all_ gonna hug me" or "They're _all_ gonna want my autograph" - as if it meant nothing, as if it wasn't serious. Yeah, okay, he had some kind of vampire level healing ability, he got that, but being shot still had to hurt. He was a crazy person.

Xander pretended to look around, as if for an address, so no one thought he was just loitering for no reason, and after a minute or two of silence, the popping noises started again, much worse than before. Now people started coming out of the bar, which was a small, slightly seedy building at the end of the block. The amount of shots made him take a couple of steps forward, although he stopped considering some of the evil looks the guys were giving the only white guy in sight. The shooting went on for twice as long as before, with at least three times the amount of shots. Was Logan getting killed as he listened? Would Faith blame him if he got her boyfriend killed?

He pulled out his cell phone, ready to call nine-one-one, when the shots stopped, with a suddenness that seemed eerie. Was that it? Were they done? Was Logan a big wet smear on a basement wall, or had he gotten a gun and turned those guys into piles of ground chuck? He felt vaguely ill, his hand sweating beneath the phone, and he realized he wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he wanted to do was find Berto, make sure he was okay. Why had it turned into … this?

The quiet lingered, stretched, and Xander imagined the bar was all but empty, so he edged closer. It was a relatively quite block, full of small businesses that would only be called "boutiques" by the most facetious real estate agent. The bodega on the opposite street seemed to be doing the most business, but it was a sad shack covered with peeling yellow ads and thick, shiny bars over the papered windows. Something about it seemed to suggest anything you bought in there would need to be dusted off first. People stared at him occasionally, eyes hooded or hostile, but there was something about the way they glared that suggested they'd say they'd never seen him before if he suddenly disappeared, just like they didn't seem to hear the gunshots, and didn't notice the mass exodus from the bar. It was like the way people dealt with demons in Sunnydale, although none of these people were demons (to the best of his knowledge), which made it somehow worse.

Time stretched like taffy, and he couldn't take it anymore. He started towards the bar, but stopped when a man came flying through the bar doors and hit a parked car so hard it actually rocked on its tires, the sound of something cracking following the man's slump to the pavement. (He hoped it was glass and not, say, his skull.) Logan walked out of the bar then, head down and shoulders up, glowering a warning at everything in the known universe, and when he saw him he stopped and scowled. "Goddamn it, I told you to stay away," he grumbled, his voice like gravel. "If they see me with you, you're dead."

Xander opened his mouth to say something, but found himself unable to settle on a syllable. Logan had blood on his face, on his hands and arms, and both his grey tank top and worn jeans were torn by bullet holes and stained with even more blood. He didn't count, but he must have taken close to a dozen bullets. How the fuck was he walking? "You've been shot," he finally said stupidly, starting to dial his cell phone with his thumb.

Logan's glare was unrelenting. "Yeah, I got shot, but I'm better now. Healing factor, remember? Christ." As he walked past, he grabbed his upper arm hard and pulled him along the sidewalk.

Xander yanked his arm free but followed, finally aware he wasn't actively bleeding (even though he stank of blood), and there were no holes in his flesh, even though there were holes in his clothes. Son of a bitch. "Where're you parked?" Logan grated.

"Next block," he replied, wondering if he should be worried about this development. Better than vampire healing then; the turbo charged version. No wonder he didn't care if they shot him.

Once they were in his car, Logan said, " I should probably check in with Angel. Why don't you drop me off there?"

Xander started the car, but looked at him in disbelief. "That's it? Oh no. We're not going anywhere until you tell me what you found out. Where's Berto?"

Logan sighed heavily, impatiently, and looked out the passenger side window. "Better get outta here before the reinforcements arrive."

He had a point, so he did start driving, but he wasn't about to give this up just yet. "What happened to Berto? Do you even know?"

After a moment of quiet, one where Logan seemed to do nothing but wipe blood off his face and inadvertently smear more on due to the blood on his hands, he muttered, "He's gone. I'm sorry."

His stomach clenched again, felt unsettled, and he wondered belatedly if he should have had that McGriddle for breakfast. "What d'ya mean he's gone?"

"He's dead. He was taken out and killed on Friday night, buried in a fresh grave in a potter's field north of Resida. I figure the guy was telling the truth 'cause I didn't smell any lies, and besides, he wasn't in any shape to make up a lie with that kinda depth."

Xander felt numb, which was probably better than horking up the contents of his stomach all over the front seat of his own car. "Potter's field?"

"It's a place where they bury the poor and the unidentified; a graveyard for the forgotten. A perfect place to dump a body, 'cause bodies are supposed to be there. Who'd look?"

He felt sick again. Damn, the numbness was good while it lasted. "Did … why? Why did they do it?"

Logan shrugged. "Guy didn't know. He said the Matador was pissed off at 'im, Berto was an annoyance, and he just wanted him gone. He's a soldier - he doesn't ask why, he just follows orders. The Matador himself's gonna hafta tell me why."

Xander heard the words, let them slide across his mind, but he barely grasped them. He wanted him dead because he was annoying? That was insane. If everybody killed someone because they were annoying, there'd be no one left on the planet. "Where's the Matador?"

"Didn't ask. Don't care. He'll find me soon enough."

Xander felt a flare of anger at that - what the fuck did he mean he didn't care! - but he started sifting through what Logan had said, and realized something. "What do you mean the guy wasn't in any shape to make up a lie?"

Logan stared at the side of his face, so intensely that Xander was almost afraid to look at him straight on. "You think all this blood is mine?"

He swallowed back bile, although he wasn't sure if it was a continued reaction to the news of Berto's murder, or to what Logan had just said. He was a _former_ bad guy, right?

Come to think of it, maybe it didn't matter in this case. Maybe a bad guy was just what the Matador deserved.

6

Why did he come to the office? As soon as that thing happened in the sewer, he should have gone right back home. But Angel had the sense that if he went home, he might go mad.

It came upon him so suddenly that he didn't realize what he was doing until he had the rat in his hands. The ache in his stomach had faded, but it seemed to become something not unlike a fever, a warmth that spread throughout his body, making him feel almost alive again. It was faintly pleasurable, actually, kind of nice.

But then he realized he was totally gripped by the hunger.

Before he left, he'd had an entire pint of pig's blood. It tasted vaguely disgusting, being cold and not at all what he actually craved, but he thought it'd helped. But his hunger was demanding fresh, hot blood, and the more he tried to suppress it, ignore it, the more it sunk its claws into his brain. It was almost like it had been the first time he'd risen as a vampire; the need for blood was a screaming desire that didn't allow for any other thought. A reflex as powerful as the need for a Human to breathe, and just as impossible to ignore.

Traversing the sewer tunnel, a rat ran in front him, and before he knew what he was doing he'd pounced on it, grabbing it up in his hands, and sinking his fangs into its small squirming body. He drained the rat in three slurps, and discarded the corpse quickly, tossing it aside before he had a chance to look at its face.

The hot blood running down his throat had felt good, far more satisfying than the pig's blood, but it still wasn't what he craved. He wanted the Human stuff, he knew it, just as he knew he wasn't going to indulge it.

But the urge, the need, the blinding, almost delirious ache, didn't stop. It was getting worse, and he didn't understand what was wrong with him. He wasn't losing his soul, he knew he still had it - as cloudy as his thinking was becoming - but it still felt like the vampire in him was becoming ascendant. And yet, as much as he could separate Angelus from himself, he thought he was confused too.

None of this was right. The need, the pain, the heat; everything was too bright, too sharp, too loud. If he could get sick, he'd think he was, but he couldn't be. Poison? It'd have to be a damn weird poison. But maybe Giles could figure this out.

He found himself draining a second rat before he reached the building. It helped no more than the first.

As soon as he climbed up into the building, he realized that he could hear the heartbeats of every single person in the place. The song of blood coursing through all their veins was like a background noise, and it was disturbing enough to make him stagger. Yes, he could hear those things normally, but only if he _wanted _to; he generally had to concentrate pretty hard. But now it was just there, loud and clear, blocking out the rattle and hum of the ubiquitous air conditioners. Just glancing towards a window where sunlight bled around the edges made his eyes water; it was like rubbing broken glass into his eyes. It always hurt, but never quite that much.

He paused in the hallway before the door of Angel Investigations, aware that there were three people inside: Giles, Naomi, and Brendan. All with strong heartbeats and fresh blood roaring through -

No! No, he had to stop. He had to get a grip on himself! Goddamn it, what was wrong with him? He wasn't a novice vampire; he'd had long experience controlling and suppressing his hunger. Why was it so much stronger than him?

He couldn't go in there. He had to go in there; he needed help.

He decided to go in fast, barricade himself in his office until he was sure he could deal with this. Of course he didn't know if that was ever going to happen, but at least there was a back way out if he absolutely couldn't take it anymore.

He made it to his office, but he had to lean against his door after he closed it, He heard Naomi make a sarcastic remark, and for some reason it really ticked him off. He thought he should go out there and rip her throat out just to -

Fuck! What the hell was he thinking?

He sat behind his desk, every movement one of sheer will, and put his head on his desk, so he didn't have to look at anything with a clarity that was almost painful. Only then did he realize he was trembling. Because he was fighting himself? Because he needed blood so bad he thought he was going to die if he didn't get some right now?

There was a light knock on the door that sounded as loud as cannon fire, making him jolt upright, and before he could tell them to piss off, the door opened and Brendan came in, holding a cup of a noxious smelling fluid. "Figured you could use this," he said, closing the door behind him. It was probably gentle, but sounded like a rifle shot.

He put the mug of noxious fluid - coffee, surely, but it smelled horrible; it felt like acid was burning through his sinuses - on his desk, giving him a professional smile that didn't hide the fact that the boy was studying him. "You okay, Angel?"

Angel stared at him, at his ruby red eyes incongruously set in a Human face, and he wondered why the only one in the office with the blood he couldn't drink had to come in here. He could smell the Human undertone to the hot plasma pulsing under his thin skin, but it was tainted by demon blood; worse yet, a demon whose blood was sour and unpleasant. He could drink it if he absolutely had to, but he didn't want to, not immediately. Only as the very last resort. "I need you to send Giles in here," he finally said, doing his best to keep his voice level.

Angel thought he could see the demon face just beneath the mask of Brendan's Human flesh, and he wondered if something in him was reacting to whatever was happening to him, or if this was just part of his ability to see things more sharply and clearly now. Brendan's brow furrowed in concern, and he was looking at him with such scrutiny that Angel had to fight down the urge to backhand him across the room. "You … don't look good. What's wrong?"

He had to swallow a snarl. The boy with his Human tainted Brachen scent was annoying him. "I don't know. That's why I need to speak to Giles." Did he smell the faint trace of another vampire on him? He thought he did. Was Brendan freelancing as a demon hunter on his off hours? Maybe; it wouldn't surprise him. He had that whole revenge thing stuck in his craw.

He supposed he should worry about that, be concerned, give him an angry lecture, but why? He was an X-Man long before he got here; he'd been trained to fight. He was hardly even twenty years old, but he could take care of himself better than Doyle could. He was a street kid, a survivor, and one who fought because he felt he should put his talents to better use. Noble shit like that, the kind of stuff that threatened to turn his stomach at the moment.

He was a handsome, slender boy who looked like he'd be a three second fight. But that was deceptive; his X-Men training and Brachen toughness would push the fight into minutes. Oh, he'd kill him, but it would be more of a fight than he would normally credit it. Of everyone in the office at the moment, he would be the problem. Naomi he could get if he took her completely by surprise (no sense in warning her and letting her electrocute him); Giles would try and fight, but he'd be stunned - he was starting to trust him again, the idiot - and experienced Watcher or not, he was getting older and his reflexes showed it. Brendan was young, quick, sharp, and not completely Human. The edge was his.

"Should I send everyone else home?" Brendan asked, and Angel was almost startled. Was he reading his mind?

No - he was just looking at him in a way that suggested rising alarm. He thought something was so wrong with him that they should shut down for the day. Oh, he was so caring, so concerned for others; how fucking sweet. A weakness that would get him killed, sooner rather than later. "No, I'll be okay," he lied, swallowing back everything he really wanted to say. "Just send in Giles, okay? And don't tell Naomi, all right? I don't want …" _To give her fair warning _was probably the wrong thing to say.

But caring little Brendan just nodded in understanding, not needing him to finish the sentence. "Yeah, sure. Can I, uh, bring you something?"

_Yes, _he thought. _A person with completely Human blood, you half-caste freak_. "No, I'm good, thanks," he grated, trying hard not to grit his teeth.

Brendan nodded, but his look was as suspicious as it was caring. The boy couldn't mind his own fucking business, could he? He left the room with obvious reluctance, and Angel picked up a pen that almost instantly snapped in half under the pressure of his fingers. Was he getting stronger, or was the hunger driving his strength to its very limits? Either way, it was good. It made things simpler.

After a moment, Giles came in, the concerned look from Brendan's face now pasted on his. He was wearing his contacts today, so he had no glasses to nervously fiddle with, but Angel knew him well enough to know he would have pushed them up to the bridge of his nose if he had them on now. "Brendan said you needed to see me."

Angel nodded, waiting for him to close the door before he said anything. "Yeah, I was wondering if you could research resurrections for me, specifically as it relates to the Master."

The look of surprise on his face was priceless; it almost made him laugh. "The Master? The only ritual I know of involves his bones, and you know as well as I do they don't exist anymore. Why do you bring this up?"

"Because he's coming back, I know he is. Here, I have something to show you." He stood up and walked around his desk, and Giles, overwhelmed by curiosity, approached him fearlessly. The stupid bugger.

Angel held out his arm and started to push up his sleeve. "I had a nightmare this morning, and woke up to find this on my arm." He actually had no idea where he was going with this. Not that it mattered really.

Giles looked at his arm curiously, searching for something that wasn't there, allowing Angel to blindside him with a punch to the side of the face. Giles went down hard, slamming onto the top of his desk, unconscious before he hit. With his newly enhanced strength, he'd probably broken something. Poor guy; if he ever woke up, that would hurt.

But he wasn't going to wake up. He needed blood, and Giles, bless his misguided little heart, was a full Human. Surely he'd understand. Sometimes you just did what you had to do.


	6. Chapter 6

He grabbed Giles by the arm and lifted his body back up to a rough standing position, only to smell and see a bit of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Yes, he'd broken something or loosened a tooth, and the smell of blood was intoxicating; it was the best thing he'd ever smelled in his life, sending a frisson of pleasure down his spine. Nothing could be this beautiful; nothing ever had been.

He sunk his teeth into the side of his neck, the skin thin with age easily pierced, and had just drank a mouthful of the most tasty, pure blood he'd had in a long time when he heard voices in the front office; new voices, yet familiar, enough to make him suddenly nervous.

He could hear, as loud and clear as if he was in the front room, Brendan exclaim, "Holy shit, did the Corleones open fire on you?"

A man grunted, and said, "More like Alfredo Garcia's men."

The voice was Logan's. Not good; not good at all. Logan could kill him, even though he thought he didn't think he would if he could at all avoid it. He thought they were "friends" after all, but he also knew he couldn't count on that for too long. Logan had a mercenary streak, and if he got angry enough, he could go over the edge.

He should leave now; he was in no shape to fight someone of Logan's caliber at this moment. But then again …Logan's blood. He could recall the taste of it, richer and fuller and more …energetic than any blood he'd ever tasted in his life. It was the champagne of blood, a category he'd never knew existed until he sunk his fangs into his neck. It must have had more red blood cells or something; something about its physical construction was different from other bloods, no matter how average it looked. If he could have some of Logan's blood, maybe he'd feel better. Maybe he'd _be_ better. His mouth watered at the prospect, and suddenly Giles' blood didn't seem so good anymore.

Was there some way he could get the drop on Logan?

"He always this scary?" Another man's voice, also familiar. Xander? An easy kill, and a pleasurable one. If only Logan weren't in the way …

"He gets worse," Brendan replied.

"Hey."

"What? I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing."

Logan made a noise that sounded like sarcastic acceptance. His heartbeat was different than everyone else's in the office, including Brendan's and his odd demonic pulse. It had at least five and a half extra beats per minute, and was as loud as a kettle drum. But that made sense - special blood required a special delivery system. "Whatever. Angel around?"

Oh shit.

"Yeah, he's talking to Giles. I warn you, though, he's kind of … weird today."

"Maybe you should take a shower first," Naomi said. "You smell like a slaughterhouse."

"That's kinda why I'm here," Logan replied, almost sounding sheepish. "I told Angel I might come in today, fill in for Faith since she's off at a job interview, but I think I'm gonna hafta beg out, since I'm waitin' to get kidnapped. And, uh, I was hopin' you guys had some spare clothes here I could borrow, 'cause all that I've got at Faith's is ripped. I'd go to Bob's and take some of his, but I'm afraid Hel would molest me."

There were so many confusing things in Logan's statement, Angel found himself distracted enough to think about it.

From the long pause out in the front office, he wasn't the only one. "You're waiting to get kidnapped?" Naomi repeated in disbelief.

"Why are all your clothes at Faith's ripped?" Brendan asked, then quickly added, "No, no, forget I asked. How about this one - why would Helga molesting you be a bad thing?"

"I was wondering that," Xander concurred.

"Faith would really like that, wouldn't she?" Logan pointed out.

"Ooh," Brendan replied. "Yeah, that would be the chick fight to end all chick fights. Faith versus Helga - mutually assured destruction if I've ever heard of it."

"And they'd probably destroy you too," Naomi said, obviously to Logan.

There was enough of a pause that Angel imagined Logan shrugged. "Rocket propelled grenades ain't picky about their targets."

Was that a joke? If so, Naomi didn't laugh. "Now who's planning to kidnap you?"

"It's a long story. Xander will fill you in while I get cleaned up."

"I will?" Xander asked, sounding baffled.

"We're not a halfway house," Brendan gently chided Logan, as he clearly started heading towards the inner office. Shit.

He was supposed to be speaking to Giles, so laying out Giles on the sofa, arms positioned just so to hide his bite (and hide the fact that he was unconscious), wouldn't fly. It was possible Logan could smell the blood anyways.

He decided his best bet was to get out there before Logan could get in here. He did lay out Giles on the sofa, but then headed out to intercept Logan, pausing to slurp down a mouthful of coffee to hide the scent of blood on his breath. It was disgusting and almost triggered his long dormant gag reflex, but there was no help for it; Logan's sense of smell was as acute as any demon's, perhaps more so.

He adopted what he hoped was a neutral expression as he stepped out into the front office, closing the door smoothly but quickly behind him. "Hey," he began, then reeled slightly, as the thick, overwhelming scent of Human blood hit him, and the hunger threatened to take him over once more. "Goddamn, have you been bathing in blood?"

Logan grimaced, somewhat embarrassed. "Not deliberately." Although he looked away briefly, his hazel green eyes fixed on him again … and something changed. It was completely behind his eyes - he too had his own poker face - but he'd fixed a gaze on him that was far more scrutinizing than any Humans had a right to be, hooded warily beneath his dark brows, and Angel noted the delicate flare of his nostrils. He smelled something wrong.

As far as he could tell, Angel hadn't noticed his own smell change. It was far more intense, but then again everything was. And Brendan hadn't smelled anything different, but then again, his sense of smell was usually more acute when his Brachen side was dominant. Also, he'd come in before he attacked Giles. Shit! Had he gotten some of Giles's blood on him? Is that what Logan was picking up?

"We should talk in private," Logan said, gesturing with studied casualness towards the office door behind him.

No. There was still a chance that wasn't what had piqued Logan's suspicions. His offer of privacy probably meant he didn't want to embarrass him, and if he thought he was evil, he wouldn't have bothered. "Actually, Giles and I are doing some research -"

"Out in the hall then," Logan quickly interrupted, although his voice remained casual. His heart rate was steady, but Angel suspected it always was, save for certain circumstances. In many frustrating ways, he was the Human equivalent of a demon.

Logan didn't wait for an answer. He opened the office door and stood there, hand on the knob, letting the ajar door be an invitation in itself. He pondered ways to refuse it, and didn't see how. But perhaps in the hall, he could get the drop on Logan.

Brendan made an irritated noise. "What the hell is this, the parents speaking out of earshot? You really think there's something we can't handle -"

"Drop it, kid," Logan said, with such weariness it almost seemed sad.

Brendan continued to scowl, but he did leave it be. He still had such a moony crush on Logan that he'd obey him, in spite of his impulse to be a reckless smart ass.

As soon as he was out in the hall, he paced a few steps down towards the elevator and then waited for Logan, hoping he'd turn his back on him. He hadn't yet. In the office, he heard Xander exclaim, "And what the hell was that about?"

How to take him out. He needed something heavy to hit him with, as his metal laced skull and neck bones meant the usual incapacitating blows wouldn't work on him, or at least needed to be that much harder. Usually a bite had a tendency to paralyze the victim, to make them still as their lives were drained away, but he already knew that that special kind of rapture didn't work on Logan. The one time he'd fed on him, he'd punched him away after deciding that Angel had had enough. In retrospect it was embarrassing - he'd let him feed on him, like he was in control of the situation. (Of course he was, but it was mortifying to think about. A true vampiric ego blow.)

As soon as Logan shut the door, he gave him a measured look, his eyes as cool as chips of topaz. "What's wrong with you?"

Too vague. He needed more information before he decided on the wisest course of action. "What do you mean?"

"You were lookin' at me like dinner in there. And now you're nervous."

"You're mistaken." Son of a bitch! He was only acting on a hunch, nothing concrete (unless his anxiety had a special reek).

Logan shook his head, looking disappointed - and wary. "Why are you lying to me? You know that doesn't work."

He huffed out a sigh - a noise he technically couldn't make, but he could approximate it - and finally said, "What do you think is going to happen when you walk in smelling of blood? Hey, vampire over here, you know."

He wasn't buying it. "It's not the first time I've been around you smelling of blood. It is the first time I've seen this look."

He thought they were "friends"; he was trying to act concerned, worried. But did Logan honestly give a shit about anyone else? He faked it well, but he wasn't sure a born predator like him could actually do it. And Angel felt he should know since he too was a predator. Maybe it really did take one to know one. "I'm having a really bad day, okay? Cut me some slack here."

He shrugged a single shoulder, but again it seemed forced casual. "Sure. Why don't we go back in, you get set up in your office, and you stay there until we can figure this out."

Shit! This was the down side of both being predators: awareness of weaknesses. "Figure what out?"

The look he gave him said clearly, without words, "_Come on, get real_". "Did you know your eyes are starting to turn yellow? You got your Human face on, but your eyes are turning."

Oh no. Angel was sure that couldn't possibly be happening, he had to be lying, but ... he suspected Logan was telling him the truth. If he couldn't control it, there'd be no going back into the office. So he only had one recourse left.

Embarrassing as it was, he kicked Logan square in the balls, and then threw several rapid fire punches into his gut, ones hard enough to cause severe internal injuries with any Human, and then capped it off with a larynx crushing upper cut to the throat before turning and running down the hall towards the emergency stairwell. Logan was as vulnerable in his soft parts - the places unprotected by adamantium laced bones - as any Human, although admittedly the vulnerability didn't last as long as it should have. And Angel found himself with a transitory pain in his knuckles - Jesus Christ, did that guy have six pack abs or what? His stomach was like concrete. No wonder Brendan had such a gay man crush on him.

He was down to the second floor riser when a sound made him look up, just in time to see that Logan, still bleeding from the mouth, had jumped over the third floor railing and was coming down straight for him.

Angel was fast enough to turn out of the way as Logan hit the riser before him, landing on both feet (how did he fucking do that? No Human save a Slayer should be able to do that!), and he spun into a side kick that nailed Logan right in the throat.

Or would have, if Logan hadn't caught his leg instead, and pulled, twisting at the waist at the same time. Angel slammed back first into the wall, hard enough that his head left a dent in the drywall, but since he was off balance anyways he planted his other foot firmly in Logan's gut. Angel tried to pull free but couldn't - Logan's grip on him was fearsome, like he was afraid to let go (maybe he was) - and they both went falling down the next flight of stairs.

Even while falling, Angel tried to kick himself free and did it, but by the time they hit the next riser, Logan was on top of him, and popped a set of his claws which he drove right through his shoulder, pinning him to the floor. It hurt - the metal seemed to burn, as if doused in holy water - and it was an effort of pure will not to scream. He drove his knee up into Logan, aiming for the gut but hitting the sternum, and the last thing he saw was Logan's forehead coming down onto his face. He had time to wonder what that would accomplish when the impact hit him like a Mack truck.

Oh, adamantium skull, right.

It was Angel's last thought before blackness swallowed him whole.

7

Had he heard running in the hall?

Brendan wasn't sure, and figured that maybe Lionel Hutz's air conditioning was doing that thing again. It sometimes made a noise like a herd of water buffalo fleeing his office. Bren didn't know air conditioners - or any major appliance - that well, but he was fairly certain that when a compressor started to make a noise like that, it was time to call in the bomb squad.

He shook his head and focused on Xander's story, which went from a routine missing persons' case to Logan taking on guys at a mobbed up bar all by himself. Logan playing one man army again? Well, it was most definitely a Tuesday then.

God, that man! So reckless, so dangerous, so frightening ... so incredibly fucking attractive. That was it - he was seeing a psychiatrist. Being attracted to men with no sense of self-preservation was a desperate cry for help.

Xander was still nervous and edgy, he kept bouncing his knee up down while he talked, perched on the arm of the sofa like his spine was too rigid to allow him to sit comfortably. Coffee was offered but he turned it down, and Bren had watched as he grimaced at the offer, like coffee just might make him barf. This was too new; he was still grieving his friend, and he was on the verge of doing many things, most of which would require calling in a janitor. He felt for him, he really did. Senseless death was never easy.

"Annoying?" Naomi finally said, looking appalled. "That's it?"

Xander shrugged nervously, wringing his hands together like Lady MacBeth (_out damn spot_). "That's what Logan said. I think he's holding back on me, though."

"Usually a good bet," Bren told him, not without sympathy. "If he thinks there's something only he can handle, or something you're probably better off not knowing, he has a tendency to hold it."

Xander sighed heavily, eyes narrowing in irritation. He wanted to get angry, to take out this pain on something, and Logan was as good a target as anyone. Especially since he wasn't in the room. "What the fuck gives him the right? How can he know what I can handle or what I can't. I know I'm not some fucking mutie or something, but I've saved the world, goddamn it. I deserve some credit."

"Ixnay on the mutie talk," Naomi said, shooting him a warning glance.

It was clear he'd forgotten Naomi was a mutant too, and he had the decency to color slightly. "Oh, I didn't mean ... sorry."

Since he did seem genuinely contrite, she seemed willing to let it go. "Just remember it's considered a slur, okay?"

He nodded, then added a salute, trying to lighten the moment. "Aye aye, Capitano."

Bren shot a glance at Angel's office door, and wondered why Giles hadn't peeked out yet. Oh sure, he could get so lost in research you had to remind him to get up and walk before he lost the use of his legs to atrophy, but Xander was an old friend of his, right? You'd think he could hear his voice; you'd think he'd be curious why Angel was gone so long.

Naomi must have caught him looking, because she asked, "What's wrong?"

The office door slammed open suddenly, and in a deep, gravelly voice that could have been Satan in a horror movie, Logan said, "That's what I wanna know."

"What's wrong with your voice?" Naomi asked, standing up from the couch as Logan came in, dragging something in behind him on the floor.

It was Angel. He was holding him by the back of the collar.

Bren jumped straight up to his feet, more alarmed than ever, as Xander exclaimed cheerfully, "Hey, if you were gonna beat the shit out of him, couldn't you have mentioned it? I'd have helped."

"I didn't plan on it," he rumbled, his voice so deep and hoarse it sounded painful. Bren finally noticed that Logan had fresh blood in the corner of his mouth, and some spattered on his cheek, mostly hidden by his stubble.

"What happened?" Naomi gasped, going over to check on Angel. He was clearly unconscious, head lolling against his shoulder, bottom lip split, with a very ugly bruise discoloring his forehead. All of it appeared to be already healing.

"He attacked me," Logan grumbled. "Crushed my larynx."

Of all the things you expected someone to say, that was right up there with _"I just got a tracheotomy". _And yet Bren was sure Logan wasn't kidding. "Why the fuck did he attack you? And how the hell can you breathe?"

He answered the questions out of sequence. " 'm healing. And I got no fucking idea why he attacked me, 'cept he didn't wanna go quietly. We need to tie him up before he regains consciousness. I don't think he's himself."

He started dragging Angel towards his office, but Xander stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "Are you saying Angelus is back?"

Logan scowled at him, not yet in a mood for conversation. Was he ever, crushed larynx or not? "No. Something's up with him, but I don't know what. Where's Giles?"

And with that single question, Bren's heart rate jumped into overdrive, the poor thing starting to kick at his ribs like it wanted out. "Oh shit," he blurted, scrambling for Angel's office door.

He slammed it open, fearing he worst, but was somewhat relieved to not find Giles's body splayed on the floor. Instead he was laying stretched out on the couch, arm flung casually over his eyes, like he'd just decided to take a nap. Bren wanted to believe that, as insane and impossible as that was, but as soon as he was within a foot of him, his denial was shattered by the faint scent of blood.

He moved Giles's arm, and his head lolled to the side, revealing a lurid set of fang marks in his neck.

Bren was feeling for a pulse when Xander came over and looked down at Giles. He didn't say anything, but his jaw set in a stubborn manner as his expression went strangely flat, and he pivoted smoothly on his heels, stomping off towards Angel's desk. Okay, that was weird.

"How is he?" Naomi asked, appearing at his side.

"His pulse is good. I don't think he's lost too much blood."

Xander was rattling around noisily in Angel's desk as Logan dragged Angel inside, leaving him flat out on the carpet. Since he could have picked him up, his best guess was Logan didn't want to be carrying him if he suddenly regained consciousness. If he was dragging him, he was in a better position to knock him the hell out again.

Xander came around the desk towards him, holding a stake as casually as a waiter holding a coffee pot, and Bren was still so stunned by all these bizarre developments he found himself unable to react.

Logan, bless his "chaos-is-my-middle-name" heart, wasn't so overwhelmed. He ripped the stake out of Xander's hand, and placed himself firmly between him and the prone Angel. "What the fuck do you think yer doin'?"

Even though this was Logan he was dealing with (clothes still riddled with bullet holes and stained by blood), Xander glared at him in open defiance. "This bastard has hurt enough of my friends; I'm not dicking around with him anymore. He's a vampire and he needs to die."

Logan matched his glare with one of his own, and tucked the stake in the back of his jeans before holding his hands out at his sides, open in invitation - and warning, as only Logan could do it. Few other people could look like they were two steps away from hugging you and make it seem like the scariest thing in the world. "Wanna do that, you go through me first."

A sane person, one with more than three functioning brain cells, would have instantly backed down, and quite possibly pissed themselves. But Xander held his hard gaze for the better part of a very tense minute, before finally wiping his fist across his mouth, snorting disdainfully, and turning away. "What the fuck is wrong with you? He attacked you, he could've killed you, and you're protecting him. You're as bad as Buffy."

"He couldn't have killed me," Logan pointed out. Could have been macho bravado, but Bren didn't think so. He'd always idly wondered what the result of an Angel versus Logan fight would be, and he supposed he had his answer now. But would he have gotten three out of three falls? Well, he did have an unfair advantage with the claws. Then again, Angel did have the fancier moves, and being a vampire allowed him to briefly defy gravity in leaps and flips, so at some point that would have given him some advantage. Wouldn't it? Perhaps the bottom line was you could be as fancy as you wanted, but at the end of the day, it was hard to get around unbreakable short swords - when it came down to it, you bet on brute force over finesse in most fights.

"Xander, why don't you help me get some ropes from the war room okay?" Naomi asked, in a way that suggested it was an order.

He sighed impatiently, but conceded with a shrug. "Yeah, fine." He followed her out of the room, asking, "You guys have a war room?"

They came back soon enough, with cuffs as well as ropes, and while they were trussing Angel up like the kidnap victim Logan had claimed he was going to be, Giles regained consciousness.

He was a little dizzy and bruised, but otherwise okay. Except he was pretty confused, and hadn't realized he'd been bitten until he felt the bandage they'd taped on his neck. Xander, who'd been enthusiastically tying up Angel, seemed eager to stir up trouble. "He was Angelus, wasn't he?"

Giles stared at him a moment in confusion - no one had told him why he was here - and cupped the small bottle of orange juice Naomi had brought him (she figured since they gave orange juice to people who donated blood, it would be helpful to him as well). "No, I don't think he was."

"Oh, come on!" Xander exclaimed angrily, throwing his hands up as if pleading to a watching deity. "Don't buy into this bullshit too!"

Giles fixed him with a remarkably stern look, one that made him look like an angry librarian. "I was tortured by Angelus, Xander. I know him when I see him."

That shut Xander up, although he still didn't look pleased. But how could he argue with that? "Did he say anything to you before he hit you?" Logan asked.

Giles considered that, glancing down at Angel on the carpet. He'd been handcuffed, his arms tied behind his back, and he was bound at the ankles as well, although Logan had drawn the line at actually hogtying him. "He mentioned something about the Master coming back."

"The Master?" Xander replied, sounding confused. "Why'd he bring him up?"

"Master?" Naomi asked, and Bren was glad, as that spared him from having to do it.

"He was essentially the vampire king, very old, very powerful. He's been dead for quite some time."

"So why mention him?" Bren wondered, scratching his head.

"Who cares?" Xander exclaimed. "It was probably just bullshit to distract you."

Giles shook his head, slowly but deliberately. "No, he seemed genuinely perturbed. I don't think Angel has ever been much of an actor; Angelus yes, but he wouldn't have bothered with such a desperate charade."

"Before he attacked me, his eyes started turning yellow," Logan interjected, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice was almost totally back to normal now. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, closest to Angel; if he caused any trouble as soon as he woke up, he'd have to deal with Logan. And maybe he wouldn't kill him, but he might make Angel wish he would.

This strange detail seemed to make Giles perk up. "He became his vampire self?"

"That's just it: no. Only his eyes started to change. His forehead didn't do that … thing, and his teeth were still normal. I'd never seen that before, and when I mentioned it, he seemed surprised. He didn't know what was happening. And I guess that triggered the attack, 'cause he was trying to run away."

"Run away from what?" Naomi asked. She was sitting on the sofa near Giles, holding a bottle of Excedrin. He'd taken a couple, but she'd suggested he take three, considering the size of his bruise. "His eyes turning yellow?"

They all considered that a moment before Giles said, "He'd already attacked me. He'd been trying to pretend he was okay, but now it was patently obvious he was not."

"And I was trying to force him to get back in here and stay until we could figure out what was wrong with him," Logan sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "So he attacked me 'cause he was scared."

"You do have that effect on people sometimes," Naomi told him with a weary sort of affection, giving him a small, sad smile.

Logan frowned at her, but briefly and not very seriously. He was aware that Logan and Naomi used to have a thing, but she didn't remember it; she only knew what she'd heard second hand. From what Angel had told him, it had broken Logan's heart, and he spent most of his time around Naomi trying to avoid the issue. "I wanted to help him. He didn't want it."

"Is he going nutty again?" Xander wondered, looking at Giles. "He's gone nutty before."

The older man looked into the middle distance while he weighed that option, and after a long moment he shrugged very faintly, a gesture Giles rarely used except in extreme circumstances. "It's a possibility that can't be discounted at this point, but it's definitely different than before."

"Would givin' him some of my blood help?" Logan asked, making everybody in the room stare at him like a crazy person. Had he actually said that?

Naomi was the first to speak. "What?"

"Around the time we first met, Angel and I both got dosed with a drug that was supposed to make you violently bugfuck. My system compensated, but it affected Angel until I gave him some of my blood. Then he recovered. If he's been drugged or something, it'll probably work again."

There were so many strange things in that statement that no one seemed sure where to start. Except for Giles, who looked positively intrigued. "He gained your immunity to the drug through your blood? Fascinating."

But Bren thought he had missed the most important part of that story. "You _gave_ him your blood?"

Logan shrugged, but it was slightly uncomfortable. "I figured if it didn't work, I'd have to kill him. It was worth a shot."

So he let Angel bite him. It was so weird to think about it - Giles was attacked and bitten by force, so that seemed like a purely violent act, but to allow a vampire to bite you seemed to have a sensual connotation, whether it belonged or not. And Logan was so casual about it, like giving Angel his blood - letting Angel actually bite him - was no big deal. It wasn't to him, was it?

He had a minor epiphany about Logan's behavior at that moment. He really didn't give much of a fuck about his body, did he? There was a disconnect between himself and his physical self, like many who were chronic abuse victims; maybe he wasn't so much brave as removed from himself, figuring his body could take the damage or wouldn't, but either way it wouldn't effect him. Why would it? His body was a thing apart from himself, a tool that other people used at will. That was just so sad he wanted to go over and hug him - except for the fact that Logan would probably throw him across the room. Still, the sentiment was there.

There was a noise in the front office, and very faintly they heard someone call out, "Hello?"

They shared curious looks until Brendan remembered, "Oh shit - the client! The guy coming in today, the one who's being stalked by a ghoul." Talk about the world's worst timing.

"Oh crap," Naomi snapped, heading for the door. "I'll stall, but somebody better get out here and help me."

"Xander, why don't you go?" Giles suggested.

They were all surprised by that, but no one more than Xander. "What? I don't even work here."

Giles fixed him with a stern look that brooked no argument, and Xander sighed and threw up his hands in exasperation, following Naomi out into the front office. It was fairly clear that Giles just didn't want Xander hovering anywhere near Angel right now. Not that he could hurt Angel, more like he could get hurt by Logan in trying.

"Why don't you guys go?" Logan said, as Angel made a noise that sounded like a groan. Bren was wondering if he was ever going to come around; Logan could have cracked his skull if he head butted him hard enough. He assumed he was able to control the impact, but if Logan was really pissed off, maybe not. "I'll see if I can't get him to talk to me."

Giles looked uncertain about that. "He could try -"

"If "attack" is going to appear in that sentence, I advise you think about that for a second," Logan interrupted. Yeah, it was kind of a silly idea, even before you took into consideration Angel tied up on the floor like the main attraction at an S&M club.

"You shouldn't underestimate him."

"I don't. I've fought him before; he's good." Logan had fought Angel _before_? Why hadn't he heard that story? "But he's not in his right mind, and I am … well, as much as I ever am. Angel's got to be in there somewhere, and he's gotta know he can trust me. And, if he tries any of this kinda shit again, I'm gonna smack him into next week."

Which sounded like a very good plan, all in all. Better than anything he could come up with, and Giles, although initially skeptical, got a look on his face that more or less conceded the point. Angel and Logan had always had a strange kind of friendship, but Bren hadn't realized how strange until today. You really didn't know people as well as you thought, did you?

Giles stood up, and for a moment seemed unsteady on his feet, but it quickly passed. "I think I'll go research the Master, see if there is some way to bring him back that I'm unaware of. It's quite possible that that was the last thing Angel was able to tell me before …" He trailed off, not sure what to say. Taken over? Lost? Went nuts? Checked out? They just didn't know.

Maybe between Logan and Giles, they'd be able to figure it out. And he hoped so, because as far as he knew, there were no loony bins for vampires.


	7. Chapter 7

8

He figured he had a minute before Angel fully regained consciousness, so he went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from the rack, wetting it down in the sink before returning to Angel's office. He wiped the blood off his face, hands, and arms, and threw the wet, bloody towel in Angel's garbage can. He'd buy him a new towel when he was back to normal.

And he wasn't ready to qualify that with "if", either. If he could accept vampires, he could accept all sorts of shit.

He sat on the edge of his desk as Angel regained consciousness, jerking at the restraints holding his arms behind his back. He was strong, but Logan made sure that the restraints would be incredibly difficult to break. "You really think you're goin' anywhere?"

He managed to roll over on his side and sit up, leaning back against the couch, and gave him an evil glare. "You can't hold me forever."

Logan shrugged. "Actually, I probably can. But I don't have that kind of time, so I'd probably just hand you off to someone else. Giles mentioned that the Watchers council has reconvened in Australia; I wonder if they'd like you."

Angel's eyes were half yellow, and half-brown now. Not one eye one color, but each iris almost split clean in half. It was an odd look to say the least. "Are you trying to scare me?" he snarled.

This wasn't Angel. He hadn't met Angelus, but he'd heard about him, and this didn't seem like him either. A third option? "If I was tryin' to scare you, you wouldn't have to ask."

He sneered at him, his top lip pulling up over a very long canine tooth. Too long - it was definitely a fang. But the rest of his teeth were normal, which was actually a bit disconcerting. You'd think it would have been reassuring, but somehow it wasn't. He was half transformed, half vampire and half man. Not only had he never seen it before, he'd never heard of it before. "You're cattle, just like the rest of them. You think you're special because you're a freak, but you're not; you're just cattle. You bleed all the same."

He crouched down, far enough to be out of kicking range, but low enough that he could meet Angel's new odd eyed persona eye to eye. "Really? See, I was under the impression that you vamps thought I had special blood." He popped a single claw, which Angel watched with intense interest, and pressed it against the thin skin of his opposite wrist, He turned his arm up so he could see it, and Angel was watching; he was riveted, just like he expected him to be. He was waiting for him to cut the skin, to cause the blood to well up, and he was almost salivating in anticipation. "Isn't this what drove you crazy? Isn't this what you wanted?"

He glanced up at him, Angel's eyes almost totally yellow now, but he was unable to hold his gaze for long. "You're toying with me."

"Course I am. But if you can access Angel's memories, you know that I'd give him my blood if I thought it would help."

That made him snort and tear his eyes away, although that was clearly a fearsome effort on his part. "Like I'm diseased; like I need healing from some affliction."

"You don't?" He was feigning ignorance. It was the best way to make people talk - well, some people.

His eyes snapped back, and caught him in a full yellow glare. "Idiot. I am the paragon of vampires - I am what we all should be. You should be cowering at my feet, mongrel."

Logan sighed and retracted his claw. Oh, as if he hadn't heard a variation on this theme a million times. "Wait, let me guess - you stole a page from the Magneto manifesto?" That confused him, so he just went on. "Look, I hate to shatter your delusion, but you're just a vamp like any other vamp. Okay, there's that whole soul thing, but from what I understand that's not so special anymore."

He grunted in annoyance. "Wrong, blood bag. I am the vampire I always should have been, finally. Those others are curs, pathetic little half-breeds."

He didn't miss being called "blood bag" - or "meat bag". Different sides of the same coin really. But this arrogant beast was piquing his curiosity. Was Angel in fact just nuts? Had he finally gone over the edge? Logan couldn't blame him if he did, and he certainly couldn't talk, especially since he had several nervous breakdowns in his insanely long life. "And why exactly? What makes you so special?"

Angel - or whoever he was - glowered at him, his eyes lambent in the dim office. "I am Aurelian."

He just stared at him, trying to figure out the joke. "You're golden? Huh. You look pretty white to me."

"Cretin!" He spat it with such venom, it sounded like the worst curse in the world. "We were the first! We are the alpha vampires, and we will be the omega! Once the race is resurrected, raised to its true glory, your bastard reign will end!"

Yep, he'd definitely stolen Magneto's script. Where was that punk ass bitch? He should come in here and have Mystique kick Angel's ass for plagiarism. "Yeah. If I overdosed on Prozac and let you drink my blood, will you get a good dose?"

Angel growled low in his throat, and continued staring at him, but Logan suddenly felt a strange sensation, like something was trying to prod his mind, trying to hold onto his eyes and thoughts with invisible hands. "Whoa - are you doing that? Neato trick, bub. Too weak to work on me - I've been mindfucked by the best; if I didn't heal so fast, I'd have scar tissue three inches thick on my brain - but good try. What is it? It's not quite telepathy …"

"You're mind's too small to hold," he snarled, sounding almost more embarrassed than angry.

"Whatever. Is it mesmerism? Didn't Dracula have that ability?"

"Don't talk to me of that of that Judas!"

He wasn't fictional? He would have sworn he was …

The inner office door opened, and Giles came in, cautiously looking towards them. "How's it going?"

Angel snapped his head towards him, and he seemed a bit startled by his partial transformation. "You're going to see your world die, Watcher! And there's nothing you can do about! You'll -"

Giles stepped forward, said something in a language Logan barely recognized - Aramaic? - and blew some kind of stinky dust from the palm of his hand and straight into Angel's face. Logan expected a sneeze (even though he was pretty sure that vampires didn't sneeze, as a general rule), but Angel stopped dead, and after a moment, his chin dropped to his chest, eyes closed.

"Sleeping spell," Giles explained, wiping the palm of his hand on the leg of his pants. "After talking to Svetlana, I thought it might be necessary."

Logan stood up, glad to be done with megalomaniac Angel-eto for the moment. "Svetlana? I take it she's not your hot Russian girlfriend."

It was a joke, but Giles just stared at him, frowning in disapproval. "Hardly. She's a Watcher who's specialty is the origin of demonic species, specifically vampires. I thought perhaps she might have some information that I didn't."

"And she did?"

He nodded. " She has a very rare volume about the Master himself, water damaged and written in the difficult demon dialogue of Sklerran, but she's managed to translate a good portion of the legible text. It seems there might be a way - a long shot, to be sure - to resurrect the Master through his immediate bloodline, the vampires he sired."

Logan wasn't sure what this had to do with Angel, until he made a logical leap. "He was sired by the Master?"

"No, he was sired by a woman sired by the Master, Darla."

"So he's once removed from him? He's a pretty shitty resurrection target then, isn't he?"

Giles looked briefly stricken, so no, he was wrong about that. "Actually, it's more than possible that he's the closest surviving member of the line. So if someone was going to do this, he'd be the best candidate. The only problem is, I'm not sure who did it, or how. Svetlana is working on translating what's left of the text and extrapolating it, but not only would the ritual require a great deal of power, it would require some of Angel's blood."

That was a switch - a vampire needing to give blood instead of just taking it. "And how would someone do that without Angel giving his consent?"

Giles shrugged with his hands and grimaced abashedly. "It's one of several details that still need sorting out. Did you learn anything useful?"

It was Logan's turn to shrug. "He's an egotistical prick now, better than your average vamp - or so he says. Called himself golden."

"Golden?"

"Aurelian. Same damn thing."

Giles pondered that, visibly confused. "Aurelian? Why would he …" Something like shocked revelation bloomed across his face, and he gasped, "As in from Aurelius; the order of Aurelius."

"Which means what?"

"The order of Aurelius was a sect of warrior vampires … or so I thought it was a sect. Perhaps there was more to it than that; perhaps they're a genuine sub-set of vampires related to the Master."

He was sure he was missing a ton of back story, but honestly he had so much on his plate right now he didn't care. "So he is some sort of uber vamp?"

Giles considered that long enough that he felt the answer in the silence: yes, yes, and holy shit yes. But when Giles spoke, he decided to equivocate a bit. "Well, perhaps. More likely the ability was somehow … dormant in him, a potentiality unreleased."

"Until now."

"It would seem."

"And it brought out a new personality?"

Giles scowled down at the unconscious Angel, as if hoping he might volunteer an answer. He didn't. "I don't see how that could be possible. It could be it brought out a new aspect."

"The megalomaniac aspect."

Giles just shrugged. Well, it happened to everybody at some point or another. It was true that nearly everyone wanted to rule the world at some point - the good thing was so few people were capable of doing it. The bad part was the small percentage of people who could, and would, given the opportunity. Logan was just surprised, because he'd never put Angel in the latter camp.

Until now, of course.

* * *

Bren figured that all the weirdness of the day had sent his paranoia into overdrive. Maybe that would happen to anybody, especially if too much caffeine was making their heart race like a rabbit.

There was something about the client he didn't quite trust, although he couldn't put his finger on what or why. He seemed to be a relatively handsome man with high cheekbones and impressively neat driftwood brown hair, his clothes tasteful and nice but upper end chain store variety (Macy's). His eyes were so pale blue they almost were grey, and they seemed strangely bright, like he was either constantly amused or constantly frightened. He had a good, firm handshake, though, which was another point for him.

Whatever alarm bells went off - if any ever did - faded as soon as he told his story, which was pretty creepy, and sounded believable (and not at all crazy). After going to a cousin's funeral two weeks ago, he began noticing something like a shadow around his house at nights - and it was always at night - although he thought he caught a glimpse of the guy (and it was a guy) in the daytime for a little while. At first he thought it was just a strange looking man, one with a long face, but he got paler and more "decayed" every time he saw him, until he didn't see him in the daytime anymore, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He'd occasionally find dead and mutilated birds and mice on the walk outside his house, but assumed it was a neighborhood cat, just like he made no connection between the "thing" and the disappearance of one of his co-workers. Until he came home the other night and found his dog - a pit bull - with its head ripped off and the body totally drained of blood. He still hadn't found the head.

Bren glanced around for a silent poll, but if anyone disbelieved him they didn't show it. And from the look on Xander's face, this was a new one to him too.

The man, Miles Broom, worked at a local bank, and had only come in on his lunch hour, so he had to go back to work shortly after showing up. But Bren assure him they'd call him back, and look into the case. As soon as he was gone, he asked Xander, just for conformation, "Never heard of anything like that before?"

"Rotting guy killing pets? No. I mean, the zombies I've dealt with weren't capable of stalking anyone. They were pure "crush-kill-destroy". Oh, and eat."

Naomi raised an eyebrow at him. "You've fought zombies?"

"Yep. With kitchen utensils."

Naomi glanced at him, but all Bren could do was shrug. He had no idea if he was telling the truth or not. "You've had a very colorful life," she finally replied.

Xander snorted. "That's the nice way to put it."

Giles came out then, looking tired but better than he had before. "How's Angel?" Bren asked him. "Have you figured out what's wrong with him?"

He hesitated just enough that he knew Giles wasn't going to tell them the whole truth. He told them Angel was under a "sleeping spell" that should keep him down for a few hours, and he and Logan had a lead on Angel's bizarre behavior, but for now they were all to stay away from Angel until they knew exactly what they were dealing with. That didn't sound promising.

"But you trust Logan with him?" Xander asked, and he looked and sounded a bit offended. "Why? Just 'cause he's the mutant version of the Terminator?"

Naomi looked at him in disbelief. "Do you need a _better_ reason?"

Giles cleared his throat, and gave Xander a look that suggested he should know better. "Angel attacked me, and had no fear of any of you. Faced with dealing with Logan, he ran away. Angel doesn't want to fight Logan if he absolutely doesn't have to, perhaps because he could decapitate and kill him with a single blow. Using his fear against him is a good idea."

Xander looked like he wanted to argue, but didn't, perhaps because he didn't want to be treated to more of Giles's withering looks. So Bren went ahead and told him about the client he just missed, and his rather grisly story of his ghoul stalker. About half way in, that line started to develop on Giles's forehead, the one that appeared every time he knew something horrible that no one else knew; something so horrible that a regular person would probably scream and flee the room. Giles was too well trained - and too British - to ever actually do that. "It sounds like a Qutrub, but if it is … this man is in serious trouble."

"I kinda think the pit bull with the head ripped off made that clear," Xander snarked.

"So not just your run of the mill ghoul?" Bren prompted.

Giles shook his head, grimaced, and seemed to need a moment to gather his thoughts. "Qutrubs are very rare, and very vicious. They choose a victim at random, then spend some time insinuating themselves into their lives. Eventually they attack the victim and eat them from the inside out, a process that can take up to several months depending on the size of the victim. In that time, they wear the victim's body and walk around in them. That's why the man he saw seems to be rotting; he's actually being consumed in pieces."

Xander let out a low whistle. "I'm so glad to know that Sunnydale didn't have a monopoly on gross."

Yeah, that was fairly disgusting. Bren wanted to ask how long the victim was actually alive through the consumption process, but decided he was probably better off not knowing. "How do we kill it?"

Giles's pause was long enough to be troubling. "It has to be chopped into small pieces and buried in salt. "

"Fun," Naomi said, in a tone of voice that suggested the opposite. "So do you want to fire up the chainsaw while I go to the store and stock up on Morton's?"

"I wish it was that simple. If threatened, they can jettison what's left of their host."

Bren knew he was going to regret asking, but went ahead and did it. "By jettison, you mean ..?"

"Discard it, sometimes in rotting pieces, at high velocity."

"That's disgusting," Xander exclaimed. "Let me run home and get my video camera first, okay?"

"What do they look like in their natural form?" Bren asked, after everyone had a chance to throw an evil look Xander's way.

Giles had to think about it for a moment. "Like a cross between a jellyfish and a centipede, only two and half feet long."

"Eww," Naomi said, speaking for all of them, wrinkling her nose at the same time.

Logan came out into the front office, hair damp, and wearing clean, intact clothes (just a generic navy blue t-shirt and black sweatpants, the spare clothes they had in abundance around here), and glanced around the room at Naomi's comment. "I look that bad?"

Giles rubbed his forehead, a nervous gesture, and admitted, "We seem to have several problems going on at once."

"Don't we always?"

That was true, but it seemed unsporting to admit it. Logan was caught up on the Qutrub, but seemed nonchalant about it, as if nothing could faze him now (which was probably true). "Tell me when it shows, and I'll chop it up. You guys get to shove it in the salt shaker," he said, walking towards the door. He was leaving?

Bren got to his feet, trying not to seem too eager, and asked, "Logan, where are you going?"

He fixed him with a stern gaze, like he should have known better than to ask. "I gotta appointment, don't I? The Matador's looking for me, and he's gotta find me."

"If you get yourself kidnapped, you won't be here when we need you," Bren pointed out, wondering belatedly if he'd ever said anything quite so loopy in his life. Probably not, although he bet he'd gotten close.

Logan grunted in ill humor, turning away towards the door. "Like there's a prison that can hold me," he muttered. "I'll ring ya when I'm done." He walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"He must need a separate trailer for his ego," Xander said disparagingly.

"He's just cocky, but he's got a right," Bren replied, wondering why he was defending him. Right now he was pretty pissed off at him, leaving them with a crazy Angel and a killer ghoul. "He really has escaped from almost every trap he's ever been caught in. Of course, it sometimes took years, but the key to Logan is he never gives up."

"But he didn't know this friend of yours, right?" Naomi asked Xander. She looked as confused as Bren felt. "Nor does he know this so called Matador. So why is he so gung ho to get this guy?"

No one had an answer to that. Well, except Logan perhaps, but he wasn't here to tell them. And for some reason, Bren didn't think he would tell them even if he was here.

Was there any figuring that man out?

9

14 Years Ago - Canada

If something was too good to be true, it usually was. He knew this, it ate at him, but he also knew that beggars couldn't really be choosers. And he was a beggar, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

The guy in the tweed coat was named Truman Johnson (sounded like a fake name, but it was just absurd enough that it could have been real), and he described himself as a businessman, one who was a little on the "extra-legal" side. He was a black marketeer, specializing in electronics and bootleg DVDs, or so he claimed - no drugs, no weapons, nothing that "dangerous". He felt he was doing a service really, getting these things to remote areas of Alaska and Nunavut where these things had limited availability if they had any availability at all, and he only went black market to avoid the "ludicrous" red tape and taxes of the Canadian and American governments.

Did Logan believe this? Not really, no, but he figured he must have been a criminal - no one treated decent citizens like lab rats, did they? - and it was an easy job with a ludicrous paycheck. And that's where his conscience nagged at him, because there was no way he was being paid enough to afford a new truck just by guarding stereo equipment. It was a fucking no-brainer. This was all wrong.

And yet, he needed the money. What the hell was he going to do for it now that the pipeline wasn't taking on new workers - fight in illegal ultimate fighter cage matches like those pathetic ex-loggers? Fuck that; he had some dignity, even if that wasn't immediately apparent. He knew something that constantly well off never knew, which was this: it was nice to have money. Not to buy yachts or people or anything like that, it was just nice to know you could eat wherever the hell you wanted, have as many drinks as you wanted, and not _worry _about whether you could actually afford it or not. There was simple freedom in having a decent wage that he was pretty sure guys like Truman didn't actually understand.

Of course being the new guy, he didn't actually "guard" anything. He was usually sent with two guys - a big Irish guy named Fitz, and some 'roided out ex-soldier named Nelson who seemed to think he was a much badder ass than he actually was. Every time he talked about putting this guy or that in the hospital, Logan felt an almost undeniable urge to punch him until his face didn't look like anything remotely Human anymore. But that would make him like him, wouldn't it?

It was humiliating to think that Truman saw him as nothing but muscle, a strong and semi-belligerent guy who was perfect for his squad of goons. It was even more humiliating to realize that Truman was perfectly right.

While he hated Nelson, Fitz was all right. He was a former logger from Alberta who felt he had a common ally in him, as Logan had claimed to be from Alberta, even though he didn't actually know where he was from; he just woke up there. He could be from Saskatchewan or the States or fucking Burma for all he knew, but he didn't want to crush Fitz, so he kept the truth to himself.

Mainly the three of them were enforcers, basically reminding certain buyers and suppliers of Truman's that they should make up accounts and quickly, or face them again, in a much darker mood. People generally paid, and he was glad.

They were also "protection" against mobsters who wanted to "horn in" on the business and take over, which Logan assumed was Truman bullshit until someone actually opened fire on them with a semi-machine gun. The three of them were pinned down behind a broken down car in a deserted garage, but Logan managed to put together an ad hoc Molotov cocktail with a gas can, and that pretty much turned the tide for them. He got shot in the arm heaving it over the car, but the others didn't notice, and it was healed by the time it was all over, so he figured he'd gotten lucky there. If "getting lucky" could ever be defined as being pinned down with weapons fire.

He was supposed to carry a gun, but he claimed not to like guns. He got a large hunting knife instead, with a thick serrated blade, and sometimes he'd stare at it and wonder why his claws were almost twice its size. Who'd give a criminal such nasty weapons?

Days stretched to weeks and then to months, playing enforcer for a guy who could honestly be a loan shark for what little he knew about him, traveling between Alaska and British Columbia and back, although one trip took them to Toronto. Truman was starting to trust him more, and his pay was going up in increments. He got his truck fixed, got some more clothes, better blankets, got some non-perishable food to sock away; he knew he should quit now, but after that brief spate of violence, it seemed like such a cushy, easy job. He wasn't hurting anyone, or at least anyone that wasn't some kind of oily scumbag - what was the harm? At least he was out of the Yukon, and winter was nearly over.

Truman eventually trusted him enough that he asked him to guard his home in Vancouver while he was away "overseas" (he never learned where, although eventually he could guess), a nice home on the water that included his rather brittle looking trophy wife, Hannah. She was a cool blonde who probably didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds, with the largest amount of body weight concentrated in her obviously surgically enhanced breasts. There was something about her eyes that he found deeply disturbing - it wasn't that they were empty more than there was an obvious desire to _be_ empty. Her eyes were tired, listless, almost dull, almost always at odds with the phony, pained smile on her face. Something about her suggested she had given up on life, that she was always on the verge of suicide, even though it was clear she lived pretty well.

He knew this was the tipping point; that if he tried to find out what made Truman's wife so miserable, he would regret it for the rest of his life. And yet the night wore on in silence so complete that he could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the main foyer; the oppressiveness of it all made him talk to her.

He wasn't good at small talk, but neither was she, so he was able to skip ahead to his point, asking her if she knew exactly what her husband did for a living. That elicited a very sad smile, and a strangely resigned, "Heavens no. I have a hard enough time sleeping as it is."

Which was absolutely the answer he didn't need to hear. Jesus Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

There wasn't much to talk about beyond that, but she did drink a lot, and let him join her. The second night, she invited him upstairs with her.

She wasn't attracted to him - desire had a scent, a shift in body chemistry he could easily detect, and even if a woman never acted on it or was quietly repelled by her own reaction, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing she had wanted him, however briefly - and he wasn't attracted to her (she wasn't his type; she was too blonde and too skinny), so it was a surprise. He thought he was misunderstanding her intentions until he watched her step out of her dress from the relative safety of the bedroom doorway. "Why?" he wondered, more than a little confused. She was even skinnier than he thought.

"You're lonely too," she said simply.

"How do you figure?" Not a denial; he really was curious how she knew. He didn't actually think he was, but as soon as she said it, he knew she was right. He sometimes had a sneaking suspicion that women could see right through him, and now he wanted to know how they did it.

"You talked to me. Tru's men never talk to me."

It was that simple, was it? Maybe he was more obvious than he thought.

He shouldn't have slept with her, but he did, because he wasn't made of stone, and while he wasn't exactly attracted to her, it ultimately didn't matter. They were both lonely, and they were both willing to settle with each other. It was actually pretty nice; he'd forgotten how comforting the touch of a woman was. He was afraid he might have a nightmare and accidentally hurt her, but his subconscious must have realized he wasn't sleeping alone, as he had no dreams that night at all. It was the best night's sleep he'd had in a long time.

But with the pale light of morning, all those anxieties were back eating up his gut. Hannah had given up on life and started wasting away, she was so tired of being married to this man. But why didn't she leave? He decided to ask after his shower, while he was getting dressed and she was sitting at her make up table, putting her face on. He didn't think women in this day and age had make up tables anymore, but Hannah did, a small desk like table with three abutting mirrors with bright lights ringing them, allowing her to see every single flaw on her face in excruciating detail. He wondered if the vanity was her idea or his.

"Why leave?" she replied wearily, dusting blush across her cheeks. She didn't seem as dissolute this morning; maybe she finally got a good night's sleep too. "There's no point. I live here comfortably, and while he may cheat on me on his "business trips", at least I can as well. We both agreed we could stray, as long as we weren't obvious about it. I'll stay until he gets tired of me and asks me to go."

He didn't get this at all. She was clearly miserable, so what was she waiting for? "Why not leave now?"

She shrugged, barely glancing at him in the mirror. "What's the point? I don't really have anywhere to go anyways."

Suddenly he felt like he'd stepped into some Bizarro world. Truman was slick and charming, but he seemed to wear his pseudo-amiability like mask, hiding his true feelings and intentions, making vague statements of what job he was really hiring his employees for, while his wife seemed so drained of life she sought comfort with the first stranger who showed a bit of interest in her. He wanted to run screaming out of this cold and barely inhabited place, but he knew he couldn't.

"You should probably leave," she said.

He sighed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah. I guess I oughta check in anyways -"

"I didn't mean here," she quickly replied. "I mean Truman's business. You should get out while you can."

He didn't understand, and he was sure that showed on his face. "Why?"

"You have a conscience. You really don't belong here, Logan. You'll get killed."

He had a conscience? Did he? He just slept with his boss's wife - signs didn't look good. "I'm tougher than I look."

She turned to look at him, and there was something stark and haunting about her face, like she was a ghost looking out at him from the past. "There's more than one way to get killed." It took him a moment to realize she wasn't talking about physically.

He went downstairs, trying to put the pieces together, and was unable to do so. Truman was a black marketeer; he knew going in he was no innocent. He knew the money he was earning so easily was tainted, but was it covered in blood? It must have been - when did people open fire on others for bootleg DVDs?

He knew. He knew all along, but he was such a greedy bastard and a coward that he didn't want to see it. He should just leave, like Hannah told him, but he needed to know what he'd been a party to for so long. He needed to know what crimes he'd been abetting, what he'd been inadvertently helping along.

And then what? He honestly didn't know. He supposed he'd just walk away and wash his hands of it all, be done with it. Would it be that easy though? Would Truman let him walk?

Yes, he would. He would have no choice in the matter. Truman would let him walk, or he'd walk straight through him; the choice was his.

He'd best choose wisely.

0 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Logan went to a Hispanic bar and nursed a beer for a long while, listening to bad Mexican pop music and enduring the stares of men who resented the weird looking gringo taking up room in their space. Only when he started to get hateful glares of recognition did he feel he had accomplished what he set out to do, and loitered an extra fifteen minutes before leaving. No one followed him, which was deeply disappointing, so he stopped at one of those semi-legal taqueria trailers that popped up from time to time and bought a steak torta (basically a sandwich), and ate it sitting on one of the picnic like outdoor benches it had set up in the gravel lot it currently inhabited, under the shade of a brightly striped parasol. These places weren't always known for their cleanliness, and even though this place seemed clean enough, he never had to think about it; he never had to worry about food poisoning. All the upset stomachs he'd ever had were psychological or emotional, not physical (unless he got a bullet or stab wound in the gut). He could probably eat raw botulism and be just fine, which was frankly a little nauseating to think about. But at least it really opened up his food choice options, so when he was desperate, he didn't have to be that picky. 

It wasn't a bad sandwich, but while he got a few evil looks, no one seemed to come looking for him. How poorly manned was the Matador? So far, he wasn't impressing him. If you were going to be a city controlling evil bastard, you needed to have more men on the beat. What the hell was he playing at? Was it his day at the spa or something?

With time on his hands, he began thinking about what had happened to Angel. He still didn't get a lot of it, but that whole blood thing really bugged him. It wasn't like Angel gave to the Red Cross - who the hell could get his blood? Angel didn't give out free samples.

The funny thing was, it was a kid walking past in a loose Rams jersey that brought on the epiphany. It was so hot, the heat rising off the pavement, that a vee of sweat stuck it to him, and the kid had pulled it away from himself and waved it, letting in air circulation. Holy shit, he knew how they - whoever they were, although now he thought he knew - got the blood. They were probably the people behind all of this as well. Giles would probably come to the same conclusion, but he was playing catch up since he'd inadvertently donated some blood himself.

He gulped down the rest of his pineapple soda, and decided this was probably best dealt with solo.

* * *

As luck would have it, he caught a glimpse of a hideously ugly cab, colored a type of blue-green that just screamed "toxic algae", and he flagged it down, to find a familiar pile of slime behind the wheel. He told Thrak where he wanted to go, and even though they both knew he couldn't speak his native tongue (did they have tongues?), Thrak gargled something at him that he guessed to be a statement questioning his wisdom. "I'm cool, don't worry," he assured him. He had no idea if he believed him or not - he had no expression to read - but he made a small gurgling noise (maybe he burped), and cranked up both the AC and the James Brown. 

He drove like a complete fucking maniac, like he always did, but he got him to Wolfram and Hart's new digs in record time, like he expected. The towering skyscraper of glass and steel looked exactly like the old Wolfram and Hart, right down to the huge stone sign out front, on an artificially green patch of grass. It was the only green grass in view.

Logan just walked in casually, leaving the humid, smog choked outside for the cool, sterile air of the inner lobby. It was made of huge slabs of Italian marble and polished mahogany, all luxury and wealth, reeking of power like a fresh lemon scent. He wondered idly if they still remembered him.

He had a single second to think this. Then the blond, beefy man behind the security desk stood up, his face stark with fear that he was trying to hide (poorly). "S-sir, you have to sign in," he said, giving off a sharp scent of anxiety. Oh yeah, he knew who he was.

"No I don't," he replied, walking past his desk. He was within twenty feet of the bank of elevators at the back when the doors all opened - elevators and emergency fire doors alike - and over a dozen men clad in midnight black body armor, carrying full bore automatic rifles, suddenly formed a Human wall between him and the lifts. "Freeze Wolverine," the leader of the squadron snapped, in clipped, militaristic tones, staring down at him through the barrel of his rifle. "These are high velocity rifles full of explosive shells - we will keep your healing factor occupied for a long time. Now turn around and walk away."

He couldn't help but smirk. These big, tough men were just as rife with anxiety as the rent-a-cop behind the desk. What _did_ Wolfram and Hart have about him on their shit list? "No. Go on, shoot me - I ain't alone, but my friend only comes out when I'm hurt. So come on, this'll be a laugh."

"As threats go, that's very oblique," a man said, his voice wry. He seemed to materialize out of nowhere, just beyond the ring of nervous soldiers, and Logan felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He was a Korean man in a grey tailored suit, just slightly translucent at the edges. Ghost? Definitely.

"Not really," he explained to ghost lawyer. He might have been the only dead one in the lobby at the moment, but he was undeniable the guy in charge. Even if he got through the soldiers - and Logan had to admit to himself it was impossible to get them all before he took enough shells to take him down - what could he do to hurt a ghost? "You haven't done all your homework. I'm Bob's avatar, and he gave me a little present, just for situations like this." He wasn't admitting he was technically gone from this plane, as he didn't want to give them hope.

Even though he was a ghost, his posture briefly stiffened, and the anxiety level of the soldiers jumped. They all got it - Bob, the sole member of Wolfram and Hart's "do not engage" list according to Angel. He was not to be pissed off; he was to be personally avoided at all costs. Of course it never said why, but that was one of the things that led Angel to grudgingly accept Bob's god status, simply because there could be no other reason why Wolfram and Hart would fear him. As a general rule, they didn't fear anything. "A Human can't be an avatar," the ghost said.

Logan snorted disparagingly. Nope, they hadn't done all their homework. "Normal Human. Healing factor, remember?" He reached out and grabbed the barrel of the nearest rifle, too fast for the soldier to react, and walked straight into it, putting the barrel flush against the hollow of his throat. "Shoot," he growled. "Let me prove it to ya." The soldier's fear reek jumped up into the skunk scent stratosphere, but he kept his finger slack on the trigger. He was just waiting for the order to fire, like a good little boy. He figured they either thought he was completely insane, or telling the truth, and which one was worse?

After a long, tense moment, ghost lawyer asked, "What is it you hope to accomplish here, Wolverine?"

Capitulation - there it was. They probably didn't know what to do with him at the moment. "I just wanna talk to someone, someone higher up. We can do this nice, or I can shred my way there. Or, better yet, I'll just let Bob handle it. What d'ya think he'll do?"

He didn't respond to that, but he didn't expect him to. After another moment, the ghost ordered, "Stand down." Reluctantly, the soldiers lowered their weapons and pointed them down at the floor, but when the soldier whose barrel he grabbed started to lower his, he popped his claws and slashed through it, sending the barrel and the explosive ammo clattering to the floor. The soldier jumped back as if shocked, and Logan snarled at him. "Don't ever aim a gun barrel in my face again, or I'll make you eat it. Got me?"

Ghost lawyer sighed. "If you're done scaring the help, follow me."

The soldiers all moved off to one side, still tense and fearful, as the lawyer walked straight through a set of elevator doors before they opened. Logan waited for them to open before he followed him, but he had briefly considered cutting his way inside, just to show he could be a smart ass too.

They rode the elevator in silence, although Logan just had to ask, "They employ ghosts?"

The man sighed, as if tired of answering the question. "Not as a rule, but I was killed while still under contract."

"Oh." That really didn't make sense, did it? "How'd you die?"

The ghost scowled at him. What, was that a rude thing to ask a ghost? The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor, and the ghost was moving before the doors even opened. "Zombies," he said, disappearing through the mirror finished metal.

Well that was no answer at all. The bastard probably knew that too.

The twentieth floor looked like the genial office level, with secretaries behind oak desks and potted plants giving a suggestion of life on a floor air conditioned to within refrigerator status, the air reeking of toner and coffee. Several secretaries gave no attention to the ghost at all, but stared at him like he was a three headed freak. He felt like giving them all the finger, but settled for an evil glare.

Ghost lawyer stopped in front of a pair of wide oak doors, where the secretarial desk out front was currently unoccupied. He stood off to one side and gestured at the doors. "I'm sure you can take it from here."

Logan raised an eyebrow at that, wondering what kind of surprise they had waiting for him behind the doors, and went on ahead. "So, do I tip you?" He asked sarcastically, ducking inside before he could answer.

He entered a huge office with a nice view, the carpet a dark, professional navy blue and all the wooden surfaces polished to a high gloss. Behind the imposing slab of a desk, a woman stood up and said, in a casual, lilting tone, "So, you're the fearsome Wolverine I've heard so much about? Funny - you really don't look that intimidating in person." She came out from behind the desk, holding out her hand. "I'm Kaya Sagawa, Extra-Human Affairs Division."

She was a slim, petite Japanese woman with fine features, deep set black eyes, and shoulder length black hair as sleek and shiny as oil, wearing a dark blue designer suit with a skirt a bit shorter than you might see on a regular lawyer (except perhaps on television). She looked maybe twenty five, tops, but he knew you couldn't take appearances on faith, especially in a place like this. "Extra-Human Affairs? Is that code for mutants or demons?"

"Divisions are so arbitrary," she replied cryptically, giving him a professional smile showing off gleaming white teeth that must have been the pride of her dentist.

He pointedly looked down at her extended hand, then looked back up at her, not even trying to take it. She took the deliberate snub well, using the hand to smooth down her skirt before pivoting smoothly on her high heels and walking back to her desk. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Cut the shit," he snapped. "This isn't a social call. I wanna know what the fuck you think you're doing to Angel."

She paused briefly before she sat down, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Um, I beg your pardon?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at her, refusing to take a seat and see her on even terms. "Don't fuck with me, sister. I don't care what psychological ploy you people are using - it ain't gonna work on me."

"Psychological ploy?" She repeated, looking up at him with a smile that verged on predatory. Something sly sparkled in her eyes, and he knew she was not nearly as cordial as she seemed. "Do you mean sending you to meet with a woman, since you're rather old fashioned and reluctant to hurt women?"

He increased the power of his glare. "I don't like to hurt 'em, but I can if I hafta. I'm sure you've seen that for yourself."

Her smile stayed firmly affixed to her face, and it seemed to be a concealed laugh. "Oh yes, the Liberty Island tapes. But we all have weakness, Logan, and we do know yours. Can I call you Logan?"

"No."

She let out a short, sharp laugh. "Oh, I do like you. I like a challenge."

He approached her desk, and slammed a hand down on it, hard enough to make her laptop shudder. He hadn't popped his claws, but he left his palm down on the surface, knuckles facing her, a tacit message that when they came out, he was going to shove them right in her face. "You have five seconds to tell me what you're doing to Angel, or I start trashing your office. This desk is worth what, a couple thousand?"

"More, actually; it's hand carved. And I assure you you're mistaken, Lo - Wolverine. We're not doing anything to Angel. He's not on our agenda right now."

He slammed his hand down once more, and this time her confidence slid a bit, as she subtly shoved back from the desk. "Bullshit! You have his blood, don't you? You have a sample."

Her smile slipped, and what looked like genuine confusion clouded her eyes. "Of course we do. When he was the CEO of Wolfram and Hart, a blood sample was taken to key certain security scanners to his DNA."

"And he believed that shit?"

She shrugged. "Probably not, but he did allow us to take the sample."

"And you're using it how?"

She looked directly at him and shook her head. "We're not using it at all. It's in cold storage."

If she was lying he couldn't smell it, but this was Wolfram and Hart - it was possible they just had lawyers so pathological that they didn't know the difference between a lie and the truth themselves. "That's bullshit and you know it," he growled.

Her confusion continued, and it seemed genuine. "I honestly don't know what you're talking about." She reached for her telephone receiver, and pressed a button for an internal department. After a moment, she said, "Kovacs, bring Angel's blood sample up to my office." She didn't seem to wait for a response, just put the receiver down.

"You know I'll know if it's his or not," he pointed out.

"I'm counting on it," she replied, her smile returning. Was she supposed to look like Mariko, was that it? He hated to tell her, but she didn't; she looked more like an adult version of Go-Go Yubari from Kill Bill than she looked like his Mariko. But maybe that was deliberate too.

Her phone buzzed, and that seemed to throw her off her game momentarily, as she scowled at the receiver before picking it up. "Sagawa." Her pause was brief, and her frown a deep and terrible one. "What the hell do you mean it's missing? It can't be missing." Her annoyance seemed genuine. "When was it last logged in?"

"If this is a ploy -"

"Oh please," she interrupted, all her false amiability gone. "Those incompetent pieces of shit in the -" she moved the receiver back towards her mouth. "Friday? You mean it's been missing for four days, and this is the first we've heard of it?" Her dark eyes blazed with rage, and he knew that she must have been a royal terror when she wasn't pretending to be an accommodating hostess. How else would she have gotten so far in this company? "Institute a lockdown - yes, right now! No one leaves until we have the lab inspected. If somebody breached our security, we need to know who and how yesterday. Alert security, I'll be right down." She slammed the receiver down with more gusto than before, and cursed under her breath, "Fucking assholes. They'd lose their souls if they had them."

"Do all the same people work in the lab all the time?" The look she gave him was one of pure short-tempered annoyance, so he attempted to phrase the question better. "Are the guys working today the same ones who work there on Saturday and Sunday?"

Her brow smoothed as she finally understood what he was getting at. "Yes. Why?"

"If one of 'em took it, I'll know."

She stood up, looking him in the eye the whole time. "Really? Dare I ask how you can do that?"

He shrugged. "Ask if you want; I ain't tellin'."

Again that smile, slightly hard, slightly sharp, given an odd sensual aspect by her brick red painted lips. "Of course, I should have known."

He had what seemed like a bright idea. "But if this is real, and I do this, I want something in return."

She gazed up at him from dark lashes strategically lowered, and he knew she put a deliberately sexual intent into her reply. "Whatever could you want, Wolverine?"

He felt like backhanding her across the face. Did she think he was this dumb, or this easily manipulated? He forced himself to grit his teeth on the anger, at least for now - she might mistake it for lust. "I want all the intel you have on the Matador."

That request seemed to stun her, and threw her out of character for a moment. "The Matador? Do you mean the coyote?"

He knew that in theory he should be shocked that they knew who he was, but he wasn't, because they were evil fucking bastards. Actually, not just evil fucking bastards, but the kings of that particular hill; of course they'd know who their potential rivals and territorial mates would be. They were a mob just like any other mob. "He a client of yours?"

She snorted disdainfully, and he felt like he was seeing the real Kaya Sagawa for the first time. "A Human trafficker? Please; he's small potatoes. He couldn't afford us." She paused briefly, perhaps to give the disgust in her voice time to level out. "You find the traitorous asshole who stole Angel's blood, and I'll give you the fucking deed to his house."

The funny thing was, he bet she meant it. He wasn't a client, and he was probably, at best, an annoying Human; the Senior Partners couldn't give a shit about him.

In the elevator up to the lab (and it was weird that they were going up, but this was a weird place), Sagawa went back to her desperately flirty persona. After staring at the side of his face for a rather long period of time (he could see her out of the corner of his eye, but he aggressively ignored her), she said, "You know, all the hair is very off putting, but when you look at your face, it really is very striking. Your eyes are very expressive."

He glared at her. "What are they expressing now?"

She chuckled, and it seemed genuine. In fact, he could tell that the scent of her attraction to him was genuine, but that meant nothing, not now. In espionage terms, this was called a "honey trap", and some women were quite adept at faking it. "I know you think it's bullshit, but if you stopped trying to hide your face behind fur, you could break so many hearts."

"I've broken enough."

"I'm sure you have. But maybe you wouldn't get your heart broken so much."

It was a good thing the elevator stopped and she went out the doors then, because he was on the verge of decking her. All these Wolfram and Hart people, so fucking presumptuous, pretending like a dossier of information meant you actually _knew_ a person. Would they ever learn that that wasn't quite enough?

The plan was simple. Inside the sterile lab, she would ask the lab techs, one by one, if they knew what happened to Angel's blood sample. Logan would remain at the back of the room, and would simply gesture to her, yes or no. The lab looked high tech but cool and sterile, lots of acrylic and Plexiglas surfaces and bleeping machines, and all ten people (seven men, three women) wore white lab coats over their clothes. Four security guards (one of whom was a type of demon he didn't recognize) stood at the exits, as if waiting for someone to try and break the lockdown. The lab techs were so nervous the sharp scent of their fear nearly overwhelmed the smell of chemicals and ichor. Several of them looked at him in confusion, but Kaya quickly gained their attention, speaking at them in clipped, sharp tones. Oh yeah, this women was a hard, cold nightmare.

She'd been through six of the staff, and he was getting impatient. This was just another plot by Wolfram and Hart to weasel out of something, wasn't it? How could he fall for it?

He was contemplating stabbing himself in the chest just to make the Bob energy come forth - the Senior Partners would talk to him then - when he realized he just caught the sour, grim scent of a lie.

Kaya was talking to a middle aged senior lab tech with male pattern baldness, the hair he had left a pale ginger that contrasted badly with his slightly sunburned pate, of average height and wardrobe, with a sunken chest and a slight paunch. He was probably the most harmless looking person in the room, but wasn't that always the way?

When Kaya glanced over his shoulder at him, Logan nodded faintly, and moved quietly while Kaya kept his attention on her. She was really cold blooded - her expression didn't change an iota. "Thank you, Doctor Meara. I realize this must come as a shock to you - "

Logan grabbed the good doctor from behind, and held his fist in front of his face. The millisecond he struggled was quickly put to a halt when he sprung his claws, just millimeters from his face. "Listen good," he growled in his ear. "I know you're lying. Now you're gonna tell me what you did with Angel's blood, or there won't be enough of your body left to pour into a test tube."

The doctor wheezed, and Logan could smell the acrid scent of urine as he pissed himself in abject fear. Kaya smiled warmly and evilly, and that just seemed to increase Meara's fear. He didn't blame him, actually; it would probably be more merciful to kill him than leave him to Kaya's tender mercies.

But far be it from him to interfere in the employer - employee relationship.

10

At the end of the day, it came down to the simplest thing possible: money. Doctor Meara was offered fifty thousand dollars in unmarked bills for the sample of Angel's blood. Shortly after it was logged in on Friday, he palmed it, and took it to the man he knew as "Michael Ellis" (what - had Meara never seen that Monty Python sketch?) and they made the swap at a Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard. The guy claimed to be a sorcerer who wanted vengeance on Angelus for something he did a long time ago in Prague, and Meara knew of the general antipathy aimed at Angel in the halls of Wolfram and Hart. He thought, after Angel was dead, they'd reward him.

Kaya had to bring in some weird looking demon to get into Meara's mind, but it turned out he was telling the truth when he was unable to describe "Michael Ellis". The demon, who looked like a five foot skink with a severe acne problem, reported that the sorcerer had totally fucked over his mind; it was unlikely he even received the money, although he clearly thought he did. Whoever this "Michael Ellis" was, he had really played this guy, and covered all his tracks.

Which pissed Kaya off no end. "Oh, we'll get this fucker," she sneered. "Magic of this intensity leaves a very specific trace, like a fingerprint. If he uses his powers again, our warlock should be able to track him. And he won't believe the shitstorm he's just brought on himself. No one fucks with us." They couldn't give a shit what he was doing to Angel; this was pride. Someone got into the head of one of their men, and stole something that was completely theirs, breaching their security and making them look like total fools. They wanted their "property" back, and they wanted a pound of his living, bleeding flesh as well, preferably as limbless, quivering mass. It was weird to think that, however briefly, Wolfram and Hart were now allies. The world was such a fucking strange place it was mind boggling.

But just because they both wanted to crush the guy didn't mean they stopped their bullshit. Kaya reverted back to the honey trap mode before he left, pointing out what a "valuable employee" he could be, and what an impressive team they made. For some reason, she didn't take the obnoxious suggestion he made very well, although that didn't stop her from slipping him her card. "That's my private number," she purred, readopting her flirty persona. "Seriously, give me a call after work sometime. We can go to the Sky Bar and I can point out who sold their soul for fame."

He took the file she gave him on the Matador, and left.

He sat on the first bus bench he came across and read the file. It was remarkably slender, but it honestly contained all he needed to know. He'd even asked if they could find any connections between the Matador and anyone named Soto, and they had done that as well - and his hunch about Esmerelda had been right.

Esmerelda Soto was one of the "employees" of one of his sweatshops near Oakland. W & H, in their coolly dismissive way, noted they made garments for discount stores, and most of the employees were illegals paying off debts to the Matador or his people through indentured servitude. It was also noted that no one ever worked enough to get out of debt. You'd think W & H might have mentioned these sweatshops (the Matador had three, and ownership of a brothel in Baja) to someone, but clearly when it came to civilians who weren't their clients and had no connection to any, _'We don't care; we don't have to'. _

So what was the story here? The Matador smuggled "Mimi" over the border, but with no money, she agreed to work off her debt, unaware that she had just agreed to be a slave for the rest of an undoubtedly short, hard life. Berto somehow got wind of this, and tried to cut a deal with the Matador - buy his sister back? That would explain the envelope and the money - but once he realized that that might not be possible, did he contemplate leaking the location of the sweatshop to authorities? It would get his sister deported, but it would get her out of the sweatshop, and out from under the Matador. And it made more sense that he wouldn't want Xander involved in that than in buying his sister's freedom.

From a man as amoral as the Matador, that would be a matter worth killing over. Hinder his profit, and die. Motherfucker.

He lived in Topanga Canyon. Logan had never been out there, and wondered if it was pretty. Now that he had locations, he had a plan that didn't depend on the blind luck of getting kidnapped. This would be a lot more satisfying than shredding his way up the ranks anyways. If a man was in love with his wallet, you ripped that wallet to shreds first, just to watch him suffer.

But first things first. He had to let Giles know what he found out, so he took out his cell and called the office. Brendan answered, and when he realized it was him, he asked in surprise, "You're done already?"

Logan scowled at the phone, but it didn't help. "No. I just thought I should give Giles a head's up. He busy?"

"Uh ... yeah. He's on the phone with some Russian woman."

Svetlana again probably. Maybe she'd translated more of the text. "Okay. I got a message for him." The wonderful thing about Bren's eidetic memory was he was the perfect biological equivalent of an answering machine. He couldn't misunderstand anything, or forget an important detail; once you said it, he had it for life. Which, in a way, was also kind of sad. As much as Logan wanted to remember things, he did sympathize with the kid when he admitted that there were so many things he would have rather forgotten - he was in that boat too.

Bren was stunned that he went to Wolfram and Hart alone, and then stunned that they had been ripped off. "Are you sure?"

"I didn't smell any lies," he said, not adding that he wasn't sure that meant anything in a place where most people sold their soul for health insurance. "And the woman that kept tryin' to seduce me was genuinely furious about it."

There was a very curious pause. "A woman was trying to seduce you? Was she hot?"

He sometimes forgot Bren was bisexual. "Yeah, I suppose, but come on - it's an obvious honey trap. I mean, how stupid do they think I am? Sleepin' with the enemy is one of the dumbest things you could do."

For some reason, the kid let out a curious half-hearted laugh, which petered out at the end. What the hell was that? "I ... uh, oh. But if you were trying to get info about them ..."

"Google it. No bait is ever gonna tell you somethin' of real value." After a curious silence, he asked, "Is there somethin' you wanna tell me?"

"No, no," he exclaimed nervously. Since they were talking on the phone, Logan couldn't smell him lying, but he knew he was all the same. What had Bren done? Oh Christ, did he want to know? It didn't matter for the moment, because he just had too much to do right now.

"Okay, look, I suggest you get someone down here to stake out Wolfram and Hart. They could get this guy from a distance, but he counted coup on them, and they're gonna want to watch him dissolve in person. They'll be sending people out, and when they do, we need to know about it. It'll be our best way to find the guy, and it's imperative to find him first, 'cause we need to know what he's doin' to Angel and how we can reverse it. Wolfram and Hart don't care; they'll just kill the guy, and leave Angel to whatever."

"Yeah, I guess ... but who can we spare? I mean, Angel's nuts, so Giles is on him, and we're getting ready for that Qutrub demon, so -"

"You have someone there that can only get in the way."

He didn't even need to explain; the kid got it. "Xander."

Logan heard Xander faintly say, "What?" in the background. "He's a civilian anyways, they probably have no idea who he is, and don't care. He could stand on their front lawn with binoculars and he'd be beneath their notice. Get him out here, tell him to call as soon as he sees what looks like a commando team move out. And if he balks, tell him it's a personal favor to me. I helped him with Berto, he helps me with this, we're even."

"Got it." He sounded relieved, glad that Logan had just given him a conversational out that Xander couldn't argue with.

"And frankly, if you can think of some way to postpone this Qutrub demon nonsense, do it. Angel's more important, especially if our evil lawyer friends are gonna whack the sorcerer behind it tonight."

Bren sighed heavily, like he was tired and unsure what to do. "Yeah, I guess." Logan knew he was probably going to leave the ultimate decision up to Giles, but he also knew that Giles would make the best decision possible. It was too bad about the guy, but if Angel remained the Master's bitch, or the Master incarnate, or whatever the fuck was happening to him, the world would be much worse off. Yeah, he took him down pretty easy in a fight, but Angel unleashed was a nightmare; he was born to kill, and after two hundred years (give or take a few), he was really good at it. Needs of the many against needs of the few, blah blah blah.

"I hope you're joining us," Bren added pointedly.

He wanted to say "_Yes mother", _but managed to squelch the urge. "Yeah. I just gotta thing to do, shouldn't take more than an hour, and then I'll hook up with you guys. I wanna know what he did to Angel too, and besides, you might need me."

"Might? Fuck you, cowboy, we'll definitely need you. Don't get killed."

"Yes mother," he finally said, unable to keep the smile from his voice.

"Be glad I'm not your mother," Bren replied tartly, although it sounded like he was trying hard not to laugh.

"Better believe I am, every goddamn day." He cut the connection, smiling to himself. Bren was a good kid, but there was something up with him. Maybe when this was all done, he'd take him out, ply him with drinks, and make him spill his guts. It usually didn't take much.

The sun was beating down on him so hard he could feel the sweat crawling down his back, and he realized he picked a really horrible day to change into sweatpants. Oh well, couldn't be helped at the moment. He'd probably have to get new clothes after his next stop anyways.

There was little guarantee that the Matador would be at his house, and besides, he wanted to really make him hurt before he came for him. He wanted this fucker on his knees, and since clearly money was more important to him than anything, it was time to make the Matador's business take a sudden and irreversible nose dive. It'd also go a hell of a lot faster if he wasn't doing it alone.

He hit a preprogrammed number on the cell, and was relieved when Helga answered. "You busy right now?"

She thought about it for a moment, while Bob's magic jukebox was audible in the background. He was able to make out Mike Patton's voice, at once threatening and semi-hypnotic, snarling repeatedly _"The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river …" _a song he'd heard Bob singing before. Was Bob weighing in with a comment, or just playing songs he liked? "Not really. What you got in mind?"

"Destroying a bunch of shit in Oakland. You with me?"

"We destroying it for a reason?"

"Yeah."

This is what he loved about Hel - she didn't even ask for the reason; _any_ reason was good enough. "Shit yeah, count me in. Give me a sec to grab my sledgehammer."

"I'll be at the bar in ten minutes. See you then." He hung up, slipping his phone in his pants pocket, and tucking the folder about the Matador under his arm. So Helga had her own personal sledgehammer, along with her own flamethrower?

She must have had the most interesting closet in the whole wide world.

14 Years Earlier - Canada

Truman was late returning from his business trip, but that was for the best, as Logan had more time to think about what he was going to do. Even though he wanted to storm into his office and start trashing the dump, a night of drinking and calming down (somewhat) convinced him that that wouldn't get him the truth; all that would do would cause a fight between him and the rest of Truman's goons. He needed to wake up and finally use his sluggish brain. Truman figured all the men who worked for him were idiot thugs who'd do anything for money. He may have seemed dumb, but he wasn't, not really. Or at least not totally. But there was no need for Truman to know that. It was time to live down to expectations - it was time to give Truman just what he expected.

As soon as he could see him, he did. He claimed to feel that by giving him all this "babysitting" duty, he really didn't trust him. And he added, almost as an embarrassed afterthought, that he needed more money. By burying it, treating it dismissively, he was inadvertently highlighting it, and the way Truman smiled so smugly, he knew it. As Logan continued his futile protests, he seemed just that more desperate for cash, and that was exactly what he wanted Truman to think. He took the bait and agreed to send him on a "special" job with Curly, one of Truman's right hand men. There was a "shipment" that was supposed to be coming into port in Vancouver, but there was a "problem" (unspecified) so they were coming into port up in Alaska. He and Curly would be there to meet it, and make sure it wasn't hijacked before it could get loaded up. Truman promised him that if he did a good job, he'd get a bonus. Logan pretended to be moderately grateful, all the time wanting to bury his claws in his gut, or tell him, _"I fucked your wife, and she likes me better", _but he did neither. Truman was a born salesman, a born liar - he'd get no truth from him.

The truth was waiting for him in a port in Alaska. And nothing was going to stop him from finding it.

0 


	9. Chapter 9

Logan was surprised that they didn't have to drive up there; Truman arranged a private plane. It just made him more suspicious, even though the plane itself was an older model and not in that good of shape. But he suspected Truman could afford better, he just kept it for himself, for his own personal use. They were just peons, thugs, and they couldn't expect any better.

He mostly slept, or at least tried to sleep, so he didn't have to talk to Curly. He was one of those thick necked mouth breathers who only watched hockey games for the fights, and whose idea of culture was lite beer and cheese that didn't come from a spray can. He also had a tendency to smell of body odor and stale beer and cigarettes, no matter how much deodorant he doused himself with. He also smelled vaguely of gun oil, although Logan didn't want to imagine where he was hiding the damned thing.

After arriving, another goon - unnamed, although Curly called him Chuck - drove them out to the loading dock where they'd be supervising the "delivery" until it could get loaded up and taken out. To where Logan didn't know, and he didn't ask. He didn't think he'd get an answer anyways; Curly was wholly untroubled by conscience or thought.

It was Alaska, and even though it was technically spring, it was fucking cold. Not Yukon "balls shrivel up to little raisins" cold, but "nipples constantly so hard it's painful" cold, which was bad enough. He was relatively warm in his flannel shirt and fleece lined bomber jacket, but every time the wind came up he could feel the cold bite into his skin, the chill like infinitesimal razor blades. The sun was fighting with a growing cloud cover, so it would randomly appear, beams of light stabbing down from above until you could feel yourself thawing, and then it would disappear, be swallowed by fleecy grey clouds, and the cold would sink its claws into you with what seemed to be an excess vengeance. It smelled like rain, but in a while; for now, it was just coming in.

The whole drive there was in the kind of silence of men who didn't need to talk to each other, mainly because they didn't care what anyone else had to say. He had time to wonder how he'd ever come to be associated with men like this, then remembered he was a criminal. So why didn't he feel like he belonged here? Maybe he was just a snob.

It seemed about ten degrees colder at the docks, the wind off the water full of the promise of ice, and from what Logan could tell, the shipment was in a green metal cargo container, about the size of a small RV. The foreman of this particular operation was in Truman's pocket, so his containers had a habit of dropping out or being "misplaced", so in at least a very technical sense, they were never here.

The container was in one of the covered buildings that served as protection from the weather. They were the size of small warehouses, unheated, with only a few fluorescent lights providing light that was both dim and cold. You could see your breath pluming out as you exhaled, translucent fog, and he found himself watching the patterns it made as they walked through the room, swirling into vague and almost taunting shapes until being torn apart by a cross breeze.

This "warehouse" contained a couple of different shipping containers, as well as a couple of crates and some safety equipment, spare detritus of the dockside, including a massive coil of rope that looked like it could be used to lasso and restrain a whole herd of angry moose. The containers were set up so there was a twisting path to follow, and at the end of one turn was a small folding card table and a couple of folding chairs. Chuck left them as Curly broke out a pack of cards. "You play poker?" he asked.

He shrugged, looking around. "So what now?"

"We wait."

"That's it?"

It was Curly's turn to shrug as he shuffled the cards. "It ain't a hard job."

Clearly not; none of the jobs Truman gave them could be considered hard. "We alone?" he asked as cover as he looked around, disappearing around a curve as he pretended to be edgy. He knew they were alone; he couldn't smell or hear anyone else, but he wanted to give himself an excuse.

"Yep. 'Sposed to be."

He found the container that was Truman's, green with the right matching numbers, and he approached it slowly, wondering if he'd be able to smell the contents. It looked air tight, and there was no telling how thick the metal was. He touched the cool metal, wondering what was underneath it (and if there was any way he could open it without Curly being the wiser), when he caught a faint scent that made him freeze.

"Logan?" Curly asked, sounding suspicious that he'd wandered off.

He didn't understand it … or did he? Did it make sense? He wasn't sure it did, but there was no way it could be anything else.

He smelled fear.

11

Now

It was in a bleak industrial area just outside of Oakland, a former gravel pit turned scrubland, ringed by a chain link fence topped by razor wire, covered with signs in English and Spanish warning that trespassers would be prosecuted - although the Spanish ones added that they'd also be shot. Did that mean only people who spoke Spanish got shot, or were they the only ones given a warning? Either way, it didn't seem fair.

Logan easily cut through the locks holding the gate shut, and he and Helga were well inside the perimeter, in view of the huge metal warehouse on the near end of the horizon, when someone finally showed up. It was a guy in a cowboy hat aiming a high powered rifle at them, shouting at them to stop. Hel, being Hel, threw her sledgehammer at him.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if she just lobbed it at him, but she hurled it with force - like it was the Olympic hammer toss - and the noise it made when it hit him square in the chest was sickening. He went down hard, his rifle flying out of his hands, and he made a horrible gurgling sound, legs kicking out, before he died. What a horrible way to die - sledgehammer in the chest. Goddamn. If he'd known she was going to do that, he'd have just stabbed him in the aorta; that was a really quick death.

When Hel retrieved her sledgehammer, she picked up his rifle too. After asking if he wanted it, she shouldered it and they continued on, Hel twirling her hammer like a baton. Finally a jeep full of guys came up, trying to cut them off from the warehouse, but Logan sprung his claws and leapt at them before the jeep had come to a full halt, as he figured Helga wasn't going to wait. (He was right - out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sledgehammer zipping by before colliding with some poor son-of-a-bitch who caught it full on.)

They barely slowed them down, and only got off a couple of wild shots that never got anywhere near them. Logan sliced through the locks holding the doors shut and kicked them open, startling everyone inside. He started shouting in Spanish that they were free now but they had to leave this instant. Once the guards started attacking them, the screaming and the running started, and they began bolting for the door.

He wanted to get the guards who started shooting first, as a bad shot or ricochet could hurt Helga or some of the civilians, but by going after them, claws extended, he scared a hell of a lot more people.

Strike that - women. They were all women, ranging in age from perhaps sixty to as young as ten, in a stifling metal structure that had no (or precious little) air conditioning, and long tables where some seamstresses worked by hand, while older machines sat near the back, reeking of too much machine oil that kept their old parts just barely functioning. He would have been outraged if his anger wasn't already pushed to its limits already. He jumped into the men, slashing guns and flesh alike, and didn't stop until the scent of gunpowder stopped stinging his nose.

He and Hel had little trouble with the gunmen, and Hel quickly got to work on demolishing the place, smashing tables and starting to cave in non-supporting walls. When his temper subsided enough to allow him to speak without growling, he asked if anyone knew where Esmerelda Soto was. Okay, maybe he yelled it - it didn't matter. He was a guy with his knives in his hands, now splattered with blood and tagged by a bullet or two. You didn't need to be psychically gifted to guess they wouldn't actually tell him, afraid he was going to hurt her.

He found the "manager" of the place cowering in the back, clutching a weapon he must not have been able to shoot since he hadn't even taken the safety off. Logan just ripped the gun out of his hand since there was no way he could use it, and the guy, a stout, pudgy man who looked like a used car salesman, asked what he wanted. He started offering him money, so Logan slammed his claw through the wall beside his head, making him cringe so much it looked like he was trying to pull inside himself. He wanted to kill the exploitative bastard, but he wasn't fighting back - he wasn't even trying - and the smell of his fear was so pungent it was making his eyes water.

So he asked him if he was right or left handed. He had to shout the question at him again to get an answer, and when he finally sputtered "Right," Logan retracted all but one claw and stabbed him through the deltoid nerve cluster of his left arm. He squeaked, too scared to actually scream, and he informed him he'd never be able to use that arm again. It was a reminder that he should stay the fuck out of the human slavery business, and if ever found out he was back in it, he wouldn't get a warning; he wouldn't see him, hear him, or sense him. He would simply come for him, and he would be dead. Logan told him this holding out the single bloody claw, and he couldn't take his eyes off of it. He was pretty sure the guy would try and enter the witness protection program if he could; he'd probably drop off the face of the world and never be seen by anyone again, which suited Logan just fine.

He didn't ask about The Matador, because he knew he wasn't here. He didn't get his hands dirty with either day to day stuff or enforcement of his guidelines - that's what other people were for. And he knew, because he used to be one of them.

The thought made him angry enough that he started carving out sections of the wall with his bare claws.

14 Years Ago - Alaska

The reek of fear was so strong it triggered an adrenaline surge in him, his body unconsciously responding to other people's terror. He pressed his nose up to a seam and took a deep breath - yes, it was coming from inside the container. Not only that, but he was smelling despair and unwashed bodies, the body odor almost welcome next to the terrible scent of so much sorrow and so much terror.

He was parsing the scents as his heart pounded in his ears - women? They were all women; he wasn't smelling any men, and there might be as many as a dozen different women in there - and he did the first thing it occurred to him to do, which was pop his claws and plunge them through the door, cutting through the locks and the welds that sealed the container. He heard what sounded like a shriek inside, so muffled as to be almost inaudible. He was so caught up in it he didn't realize that Curly had snuck up on him until he felt the barrel of the gun against his head. "What the fuck d'ya think you're do -" he paused, and Logan smelled a spike of fear from him as he realized that Logan wasn't holding a knife, but had them inside his hand.

He meant to turn, popping his other claws to disarm Curly (in more ways than one), but Curly pulled the trigger before he could move, his hatred of mutants making him react instantaneously. He heard the explosive pop, felt the burn of the cordite on his skin as what felt like an anvil slammed into the back of his skull, and he blacked out. He came to on the cold concrete floor, head still burning with healing, and he figured he hadn't been out long, maybe a minute tops. He had no idea what to base that on of course, except his head was still ringing, he was still healing, and Curly was making weak gurgling sounds on the floor behind him.

He looked at him for several seconds before he figured out exactly what he was looking at, his reeling mind trying to make sense of what seemed like senseless images. Blood was spewing from where about half his right hand used to be, and his face was a crimson and black mask, partially burned by gunpowder and partially cloaked by blood, shards of black metal embedded in his bleeding face and throat, one eye completely blasted to jelly. He was twitching slightly, air bubbles seemingly forming in the blood streaming from his throat, and he didn't need to smell the death reek to know he was a goner.

What must have happened: Curly shot him point blank in the back of the head, a method cops generally dubbed "execution style". The problem? It really was point blank, and when the bullet hit his metal skull - which obviously it did - it ricocheted. But with nowhere to go in such a confined area, it ricocheted right back into the gun, making it explode like a tiny fragmenting grenade. It must have been almost instantaneous; Curly probably had no idea what the fuck had just happened, and never would. But by deciding to kill him, he had killed himself.

Now _that_ was instant karma.

It was still a heavy blow, though, and he was riding the waves of dizziness the best he could as he pulled himself back up to his feet, using the container to help him, and finished cutting out an opening in the container. By the time he had grabbed the metal piece and pulled it out, he was merely light-headed and feeling slightly bruised. Curly had a small flashlight in his coat pocket, he had seen it, so he went back to him - he had finally stopped twitching now, the blood flow slowed to a trickle - and he pulled the little Mag-Light out of his pocket and turned it on. Then he realized how gruesome the scene was with Curly laying mutilated in a wide puddle of blood, and pulled a blanket off a near by crate, covering his body with it. "I'm not going to harm you," he said, hoping his tone was soothing. He could only hear himself from a distance, as his eardrums hadn't fully healed from the explosion that must have knocked out at least one of them.

Aiming the flashlight in the hole, he was met by pale, wide eyed faces that flinched from the sudden light. They weren't women - they were girls. The oldest was maybe around seventeen, the youngest maybe thirteen, and there were fourteen in there, with about four draped on the floor of the container as if unconscious from lack of air. They were shivering, both from cold and from fear. "If you're gonna leave, we need to do it now," he told them, gesturing for them to leave. Did they speak English? Oh shit, what if they didn't?

None of the women seemed eager to move or say anything, but finally one of them came forward, a slim, sloe eyed girl with stringy, slightly dirty brown hair, maybe all of sixteen. "We just want to go home. Just let us go, we won't tell anyone -"

"I'm not one of them," he interrupted, and realized two things almost simultaneously. The girl was speaking Russian - but he understood it. Not only did he understand it, but he was speaking Russian right back at her, which was confirmed by her surprise. Since when did he know Russian? He'd swear he'd never even heard it before this very moment. "If you wanna get outta here, we gotta do it now. Someone's bound to show up soon, so let's go."

"Where?" she asked.

That was a good question. What the fuck was he doing? And what the fuck were they doing in there anyways? "Uh, to the cops. We passed a police station down the road. They'll help you." Or so he hoped. Even though Lilly had probably saved him, he instinctively distrusted cops, or anyone in a uniform for that matter. He just assumed that trusting them was setting yourself up for betrayal, although he had no idea why. Still, he assumed the cops weren't on Truman's payroll, simply because they'd be here helping out if they were; there'd be no need to avoid them.

The girl was reluctant to trust him, which pissed him off a bit, and then she saw the body on the floor. Yes, the blanket covered Curly, but his blood was still visible, soaking into the edges of the blanket and turning it black. At her look, he grimaced, and told her, "He tried to kill me for opening the container." He realized there was some implication in that he had killed him first, but he didn't know how to explain that Curly had killed himself by shooting him in the head (of which there was no sign).

The girl considered that, still shivering violently in what looked like someone else's clothes, and asked, "Was he one of them?"

There was no need to specify the "them", especially since he started it. He just nodded.

She scowled down at his body, with a surprising amount of hate. "Good."

The girl - whose name was apparently Natalya, from what one of the other girls called her - helped him get the rest of the girls out of there, and kept them more or less an intact unit. Every group had at least one person who was the "alpha", the fighter or unofficially designated leader, and Natalya was clearly it. He was glad, because that made things easier.

He still had no idea what he was doing or why he was doing it. Maybe he was still reacting to their fear.

They were reluctant to get in the back of the truck that he and Curly had been left with, but there was no way for everyone to fit up front. It seems they were reluctant because after almost a month stuck in a cargo hold, they'd now spent the better part of a day stuck in a cargo container with a single air vent. Why? Natalya sat up front with him as he drove away from the dockside, wondering when another of Truman's men would find Curly's body, and she told him. And something worse than his worst fears were confirmed.

Some of the girls were promised jobs in America, others were kidnapped or - Jesus - sold (sometimes by their own families). They were told on the cargo ship that they'd be "working off" the cost of their passage, but the work sounded like prostitution, and some of the men on the ship had "hurt" them - she was vague, and Logan was glad, because he could guess her meaning, and he felt so angry and so ill he thought he might have an aneurysm or vomit (or both simultaneously).

Sex slavery. God damn it, Truman sold _people. _No, not just people _- kids. _Kids were where the money was at; if you wanted a twenty five year old hooker, you could find one in any major city. But to find a fresh thirteen year old who didn't want to be there, but had no choice because she spoke no English and everyone she knew lived in another country …

He was going to kill him. He was going to go back to Truman's office and kill him in pieces, so he could watch himself getting killed. This was slavery, and he had made him a part of it.

(Bullshit! His own unwillingness to ask questions had made him a part of this! He was as dirty as Curly, or anyone else who knew what was actually going on. If he hadn't been a criminal before, he was now, and he was one of the most despicable kind. A Human trafficker.)

There was a crack, and he realized that he had gripped the steering wheel so hard in his anger that he just broke part of it. It still worked though, so he figured he should consider himself lucky. Natalya was staring at him, startled, and he felt compelled to tell her something so she didn't think he was just going to take them somewhere and bury them in a shallow grave. "I know the man behind this," he told her. "I'm gonna kill him."

She searched his face, as if trying to figure out if he was telling her the truth or not, then must have decided he was and nodded, looking out the window. "Where are we?"

"Alaska."

She nodded again. "No wonder it's so cold."

He pulled up just down the street from the police station, which was a squat brick building that shared space with what passed for the fire station out here. He couldn't go in with them, and told Natalya so, although he left out the fact that he thought he might be wanted by police somewhere. She was so apparently cold her lips looked bloodless, not so much pink as nearly white, so he took off his coat and gave it to her. She seemed reluctant to take it, but as soon as she did take it she put on the coat eagerly, zipping it up and enjoying his body heat. Since she didn't speak English and none of the other girls did either, he found a scrap of paper in the glove box and wrote a note for her to give to the officers, basically saying they'd been brought here against their will in a cargo container, and were officially requesting help in escaping from the men who had kidnapped them. He knew the cops would be so confused and appalled by the letter they'd check it out, and the possibility that it was a joke would dissolve as soon as they found Curly's body. (Would forensics ever figure out the precise sequence of events that led to his gun blowing up in his hand? He doubted it severely. He wondered what they would eventually decide the official cause of it was. Probably some kind of catastrophic mechanical malfunction, one of those once in a lifetime things.)

"I'm so sorry," he told her, knowing it meant nothing, knowing it wasn't enough. How could it be? _I'm sorry that many of your countrywomen were probably enslaved, and because I tried not to think about where the money was coming from, I kind of helped. But at least I freed you._

She looked at him, and her eyes had a kind of hollow bleakness, part exhaustion and part long term trauma. The fact that she was still functioning with such calm was a testament to her strength and to the numbing effects of shock. "Why? You don't need to be. Thank you."

He shook his head, hating himself as much as he hated Truman. "Please don't."

She nodded and got out of the truck, tucking the note in the pocket of his jacket (now hers), and started getting the other girls out of the back. He waited until Natalya had herded them into the police station before he started up the truck and drove away.

He was headed to the airport. Truman would probably hear about this before he could reach Vancouver, but hopefully he wouldn't flee anywhere new. Because he was going to kill him, and the sleazy bastard was going to die if he had to hunt him down to the ends of the earth.

He had no idea what he was going to do with himself, though. Maybe he'd figure that out as soon as he dealt with Truman.

12

Xander did protest about being sent out on a "chore", but Bren did use what Logan said, about him considering this payback for helping with Berto, and he relented. But he went out the door grumbling , "I always get to stake out the damn evil lawyers …"

Giles had figured out a way that they could help Broom without necessarily wasting a lot of time on it. If they put a sacred circle of salt around Broom's house, and he stayed inside it, the Qutrub would be unable to breach it. It would force the demon away for another time, and they'd be able to hunt it down the next night - with hopefully a well and intact Angel. Which was a problem that still needed solving.

If Giles knew more about what was going on with Angel, he hadn't said yet, but if his increasing anxiety was any indication, he was holding out on them. The last time he'd come out of the office, it was only to ask if Logan had called back to say whether he was coming back here or meeting them on site … assuming Wolfram and Hart honestly did what Logan expected them to do, and they could guess where they were headed with any degree of accuracy. Of course Logan hadn't called; it had been almost an hour since he had. In the meantime, Faith had called, also looking for Logan (what he wouldn't give to be that popular - but then again, if he had to work out all the time to match his pecs, maybe he'd pass), and she sounded so happy he couldn't tell her what was going on with Angel. She told him she had indeed gotten the job, and it was "amazing", and for him to let Logan know that tonight they were celebrating.

So, he filled out a post-it reading _'Logan - buy rip proof clothes, and hide them.'_ There was no point in him wearing them, since he got the feeling Faith's idea of celebrating was probably illegal in most Southern states. For all the horrible shit he'd been through, Logan was a lucky son of a bitch sometimes.

Naomi had run off to the corner store to buy the salt for the sacred circle (they were a bag short), so he was alone in the office, watching the late rays of sun slant against the far wall. Usually the blinds were always shut out of deference for Angel, but now there was no need, and besides, if Angel broke his bonds and rushed out here he'd get instantly burned back into his office, the nearest available darkness. Bren tried for a third time to contact Broom, but all he had gotten so far was a bland voice mail system where it gave a phone number without a name. It was his number though, so he told him they thought they had a solution to his "problem" (he was vague in case someone else read his messages) and to call them back as soon as he could. So he was waiting on phone calls from two men who never seemed to answer their phones. Lovely. He now knew how struggling actors and jilted women felt.

And Logan's words kept ringing in his ears: _"No bait is ever gonna tell you somethin' of real value." _Of course Logan could just be saying that, he could be guessing, it wasn't like he knew all about it; it wasn't like people had thrown "bait" at him before. It wasn't like he was experienced with both sex and deception; it wasn't like Mystique tried to seduce him or something …

Oh fuck. He was an idiot. Logan was one hundred percent right, and Bren knew he should just start banging his head on his desk now. This thing with Kier would never add up to anything except an occasional good time. Kier could be neck deep in what was happening to Angel, and he would never know.

He thought he heard a noise in Angel's office - it was so quiet he could hear people cursing in three different languages in the streets below - and he went to investigate. Giles might not appreciate it, but he was dead bored anyways, and it was better than contemplating the depths of his own idiocy. He had all night to do that.

"Anything I can help -" he began, opening the door. But he paused as he saw a weird tableau before his eyes.

Angel was awake, still bound and sitting on the floor, but his eyes were yellow and glowing, glaring with hate at a standing Giles, whose back was to Bren. The noise Bren must have heard was the book falling from Giles's hands, as it laid open at his feet. There was something odd about his posture, so stiff and still, that Bren walked around him, and that's when he felt it.

It was impossible for him to say what exactly it was, but it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and totally unbidden, his demon side came out - his skin became leathery and Brachen blue-green, the red spikes coming out so suddenly he felt like a porcupine. Giles' eyes were wide and staring, not looking at Angel more than looking through him. Bren changed his gaze to Angel, and realized that he was doing something to him - but how? What the fuck was he doing, and why did it make the demon in him literally jump out of its skin?

"Stop it," Bren demanded, stomping towards Angel. He could actually _feel _something; it was like walking into an invisible stream of energy. Angel was staring right through him, as if trying to make a hole through his torso. It pissed him off, mainly because it scared him so much. No vampire could do this - this definitely wasn't Angel. This just might be the thing that killed Angel. "I said stop it!" he roared, and back handed Angel - or the thing in him - across the face.

That seemed to break the spell, or whatever it was. That feeling of walking into resistance faded, and he heard Giles curse softly behind him. But Angel - no, the Angel thing - looked up at him with his glowing yellow eyes, and he snickered, an ugly, mocking kind of sound. "Oh, little half-breed. Isn't there a toilet somewhere you could be cleaning?"

He thought Angel was supposed to be asleep for the next few hours. Why wasn't he? Giles didn't screw up spells. "Shut the fuck up. Just what were you playing at?"

Angel leered up at him, showing fangs that seemed too white and too long. His forehead remained smooth and Human, and the effect was at once incredibly attractive and utterly horrifying. There was nothing right about him now. "You're going to die, you know. You and all your pathetic little friends."

"Yeah yeah, I've heard it before. Get a new script."

"They all hated you," he continued, and at first he had no idea what he was talking about. "The little muties were afraid of you. The half-blood demon, the freak amongst the freaks. Logan doesn't even like you, he just feels sorry for you. He knows you'll be dead before too long, just like your junkie whore of a mother -"

He punched him square in the jaw. He knew this … thing was just taunting him, but bringing up his mother wasn't something he could abide right now. "I told you to shut the fuck up," he growled, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him for emphasis.

But Angel laughed. It was a horrible sound, even more disdainful than the previous snicker, and the look on his face, one of glorious triumph, made anger flare in his belly. "Is that the best you can do, you little faggot?"

He didn't hold back this time - he punched him once more in the side of the face, and kept punching until he smelled blood and heard something crack in Angel's face. He knew he should stop, but he was furious at this … thing, whatever it was; he hated that it had taken the place of one of the better men he had ever known. Giles grabbed his arms and pulled him back, telling him, "It's all right, Brendan, I'm okay, he's just trying to manipulate you -"

"Bring him back, you fucker!" he shouted, spitting down at the thing that wasn't Angel anymore. "Bring Angel back!"

But the thing rolled its head around slowly - maybe he had hurt it a little - and glared up at him with open contempt. Even though blood was trickling down his chin from his split lip, the thing that was no longer Angel smiled in a cold, savage way. "I'm going to rip your beating heart out of your chest and eat it. You'll probably be alive long enough to see it." And with that threat, he arched his back and jumped up to his feet, tearing the ropes from his body at the very same time.

Oh shit.

0 


	10. Chapter 10

Giles must have moved, because behind him the door opened, and Angel instinctively cringed away from the glow of sunlight in the front office. "There's nowhere for you to go," Giles said sternly. "Tell us who -"

Angel didn't wait for him to finish, he lunged at him in spite of the sunlight beyond him, and Brendan put himself in the path, spinning into a roundhouse kick that caught Angel full in the side of the face. He stumbled, falling back towards his desk, and Bren was on him before he could recover, smashing his doubled fist into the base of his neck.

No, he honestly had no idea what he was doing, and he knew if he thought about it, he'd panic and lose it. He couldn't fight Angel for long under normal circumstances; now was suicide. But he was sticking to the cold, clinical facts of Logan's and Saddiq's self-defense courses. When you were overpowered, you had to work other angles: speed, agility, ability, experience, and if you had none of those on your side, you had two things left - surprise and fighting very, very dirty (except Logan was a big proponent of option three, which was getting the fuck out of there - you could always come back with back up, which you couldn't do if you were dead). Bren knew he had surprise in the fact that he attacked Angel at all, but that wouldn't last, so he was back to fighting dirty. He grabbed the back of Angel's head and rammed it repeatedly into the desk, not giving him a chance to recover, but it quickly became irrelevant.

Angel slammed a fist blindly into his stomach, hard enough to make all the breath leave his body in a single rush. And Angel moved so fast he didn't even have time to catch some air - he grabbed him and flipped him over, so he slammed down back first on the desk, hard enough that he saw black and yellow spots explode in front of his eyes. When they started to clear, he found himself looking up at a bloody and angry Angel. "Nice try, little bitch," he growled, seizing him by the throat, his fingernails slicing into his skin.

Before he could do anything - and he was bound to do something bad - water splashed on the side of Angel's face and he reeled away hissing, his skin sizzling like burning bacon. Giles must have pulled out the holy water (lucky for him), and he said something that sounded like a spell. As Bren forced himself to slide off the desk - he would have preferred to have passed out - he looked over the top of the desk just in time to see Angel had thrown a lamp at Giles and hit him square in the face, deflected only slightly by the arm he'd managed to raise in time. "Shut the fuck up, old man!" he spat, as Giles staggered back and grabbed the doorframe, and Angel bolted for the interior door, the one leading to the internal hallway.

Bren opened one of the drawers of the desk and groped for a weapon (there were a lot of stakes, but he wasn't sure he was ready to kill him yet), while Angel slammed up against a previously invisible barricade, the energy flaring a bright orange-red as he hit it and bounced off, snarling in pain. "What did you do?" he roared, spinning and lunging for Giles. No, he didn't actually lunge; that implied that there was a transition between movement and result - he just seemed to fly across the room, a black blur, something moving too fast to be properly seen, and he probably would have ripped his throat out that very second if Giles wasn't just beyond the doorway. That invisible barrier flared to life once more, keeping him just out of his reach. Giles looked at him coldly, blood trickling from cuts on his forehead. "If you had listened to me, you would have known I cast a binding spell. You're not leaving this room until I want you to."

Angel made a noise like an aggrieved tiger, a deep growl that was bone chilling in its pure demonic rage. "Then let me the fuck out."

"Your mesmerism won't work through the barrier, so don't waste your energy."

Bren felt something cold and round, a sphere of thin glass. Oh cool, had Angel saved the holy water "bombs" he'd given him? Perfect. He just grabbed one and stood up when Angel said, "Fine. But you left your little boy in here -"

Again Angel moved so fast he was a blur, and before Bren had even blinked Angel had seized him by the throat once more. But he was hyper-alert (a nice way of saying scared shitless), and just as Angel squeezed his windpipe like he was trying to rip it out of his neck, he smashed the globe full of holy water right into his left eye.

"Son of a bitch," he roared, tossing him across the room like he was as light as a rag doll. Bren tried to catch himself, but hit the wall before he could. His consciousness waved as he slid down to the floor, but Giles finished the spell he had started earlier, and Angel was thrown back by an unseen force, and collapsed to the floor, unconscious … for the moment. His eyeball was still sizzling from the holy water, and looked somewhat grotesquely like it was boiling in its socket.

"Are you all right?" Giles asked.

Bren sat up, darkness trying to swamp his vision, and he tasted blood in his mouth as a sharp pain stabbed through his side. Well considering he'd just fought the super-charged Angel, he'd probably gotten off very lucky. "You didn't see my spleen pop out, did you?"

Giles's brow furrowed in concern. "No."

"Then I guess I'll recover." He took as deep a breath as he could, and used the wall to help him stand up. He nearly fell over twice.

"If you revert to Human, I'll take you to the hospital."

"I don't need it; as long as I stay Brachen, I should recover pretty quickly." He was forced to take a couple of shallow breaths through his nose as he attempted not to pass out, and he was careful to inch along the wall, not ready to move without support yet. Yeah, those were probably internal injuries. What he wouldn't give to have Logan's healing factor right now.

Giles was staring at Angel's still form, and for having been beaten both physically and mystically, Angel looked surprisingly good. He had a extra rapid vampire healing factor too - lovely. "So, new powers, huh?" Bren asked, feeling like an idiot.

Giles nodded almost absentmindedly, still staring at Angel. "Logan mentioned something about him having some kind of weak mental power, but that wasn't weak. How did he resist it?"

He really wanted an answer from him, didn't he? "Well, umm, maybe Angel's gotten stronger since then. Or, you know, Logan's a tougher nut to crack. He was used as a fuck towel by just about every telepath down the pike for a long time - maybe the ones with a less than overwhelming ability just don't effect him that much."

Giles scowled at him, possibly for the language, but his pale eyes were bright with intrigue. "What, he adapted to low level telepathic ability?"

Was that what he said? His head was still spinning, and he wasn't honestly sure. "Uh, okay, yeah."

He nodded, looking back at Angel on the floor. He twitched, and Bren felt his stomach lurch, although Giles expression gave nothing away. "That sleep spell should have put him under until sundown. He's growing resistant to magic."

Bren had never heard such a thing. "Is that possible?"

Although it pained him, Giles was forced to shrug a single shoulder. "Not with a vampire. But it isn't clear what's happening to him." All doubt dissolved, and his jaw set grimly. "Call Logan. We need him here now."

He managed to scoff, although it hurt to breathe. "I've _tried_ to call him. He isn't answering."

"Keep calling until he does. I don't care if he's locked in the trunk of a car, he's supposed to be a bloody superhero, isn't he? He can stop playing vigilante for a day. Also, get Faith in here; get everyone in here. I'm not sure we can contain him much longer, not unless I start calling on some darker magic."

"Everyone? But Faith -"

"Is a Slayer, and we may need that."

He was clearly not in a mood to have a discussion - he was issuing orders. And there was something in Giles's tone of voice that made you want to obey. It was almost a relief that someone was taking charge and sounding like they actually knew what they were doing. "Do you mean Xander too?"

The look Giles gave him said it all. "No. That might still pan out, and besides, he can't really help here. Just don't tell him that."

"Gotcha." He wanted to ask what they were going to do with Angel, but he didn't, because he wasn't sure he wanted to know, and he wasn't sure Giles had an answer yet anyways, and he didn't want to shatter the comfort of someone being a fearless leader.

But what if he was gone for good? What if they never got Angel back?

What were they going to do?

* * *

Logan didn't realize he was just sitting staring out the windshield at nothing until Hel punched him on the arm. "Hey, what was that for?" he muttered, rubbing his arm. She knew just where to hit, where she'd hit more muscle than bone, and it hurt.

"'Cause I want to know why this is personal for you when you don't even know these people. What's going on here?"

He shrugged, and looked out the passenger window to avoid her eyes. "Nothin'. I just don't like these kinda people."

"Uh huh. You're not the only one who knows when people are lying, you know."

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and wished Hel would start her car, as the heat was starting to build up to intolerable level, and he could feel sweat starting to crawl down his face. "I really don't wanna talk about this right now."

"Knowing you hon, you never want to talk about anything. But this is hurting you. You think I can't tell? I know you, and -" she paused as her cell phone rang - the ring tone was Static X's "I'm With Stupid", and he wondered if that was her way of tweaking Bob - and answered it with a slightly annoyed scowl. "Yeah kid, this ain't a good time …" she paused, then said, "Yeah sure." She handed her phone to him. "Bren wants to talk to you."

Oh shit, he was so not in the mood for this. But maybe talking to him would spare him from spilling his guts to Helga. "What is it?"

Bren's story knocked all the self-loathing straight out of him. Things had gone straight down the toilet with Angel, and although Bren claimed to be "fine", he sounded pained. And he'd called the bar in hopes that Hel would know where he was since he wasn't picking up his cell, and that's how he found out Helga was with him. (The kid really was a budding detective, which was kind of scary.)

Giles wanted to bring everyone in, as Angel kept acquiring new powers along with his new, unpleasant personality, and two (well, two and a half) names occurred to him that Giles hadn't mentioned. He told the kid, but the kid didn't know how to contact them. Helga tapped him on the shoulder, and mouthed _'Bob knows'_. Well, of course he did - and if he did, Logan knew that he should know. He wasn't looking forward to talking to them, but he knew they might need them if things went further to shit with Angel. He told Bren to tell Giles he'd be coming in with company, and hung up.

Of course he had to get Hel up to speed on what was going on with Angel, and she listened without comment, only grimacing slightly at key points. Once he was done, she said, "Who benefits from Angel becoming a super vampire killing machine? I don't think Wolfram and Hart would want that, simply because he might come for them."

"Yeah, that occurred to me. But I dunno know - Angel's gotta have lots of enemies, going way back. I really don't know how we're gonna figure out who's targeting him."

"Then we don't. We just have to figure out what's happening to him, and backtrack from there," Helga said reasonably. But that was easier said than done.

He had to think about it a moment, but the number floated into his mind, and he punched it up with great reluctance. He braced himself, and listened to the ring, wondering if he would get an answering machine. What could possibly be on it? Horrible, hellish screams? Fingernails down a blackboard? Their taunting voices? "It's A Small World After All"? Certainly something that would make your flesh crawl.

As it was, he never found out. "Hello -"

"- Logan -"

"- or are -"

"- you Bob -

"- right now?"

He sighed, wishing he was shocked. "How are you both on the same fucking phone?"

"Separate -"

"- telephones -"

"- same line."

"Is this -"

"- about Daddy?"

He looked at the phone in disbelief, aware that it would do him no good at all. "You know there's something wrong with Angel?"

"Of -"

"- course -"

"- we do -"

"- he's our -"

"- Daddy."

They just went out of their way to be creepy; he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of shuddering. "So why didn't you show up at the office to help?"

They paused briefly. "Say -"

"- please."

He snarled into the phone, and they laughed in stereo, an annoying titter that made him want to shove the phone down their throats. They must have known that, though, because before he hung up on them, they said, "Just -"

"- kidding -"

"- stud."

Okay, that "stud" did make him shudder, but he held the phone away so they didn't hear it or sense it or whatever it was they did. "Just meet us there at the office, okay?"

"Okay -"

" - sweetie -"

"- and don't -"

"- worry, no -"

"- matter how he's -"

"- changed we can -"

"- handle him. We're not -"

"- your average vampires either."

"No shit," he snapped, and hung up before they could call him another pet name. If they did that to his face, he'd hit them - he didn't care if they were sixteen year old girls. Okay, they technically weren't sixteen year old girls; they were probably more like a hundred and sixteen. But that gave him more incentive to smack 'em, since they were undead.

He used Hel's phone once more, to call a guy that he knew Giles would resent, but they might need him and his unique abilities. After all, Bren said that Giles was afraid Angel was somehow growing inured to magic. How could he be inured to someone who was actually a literal child of magic?

He dialed the number that came to mind (thanks to Bob's memory), and after getting those strange rings unique to Europe, he was sent to a machine that had the cryptic message: "Call upon me at your own peril." Then there was a beep. Gosh, how had he gotten such a bad mythical reputation? Mordred was so damn warm and fuzzy.

"Hey, jackass, Bob is calling in his chit," Logan said, and only knew from the strange look that Helga was giving him that he was saying it in French. But Mordred's message was in French, and he must have automatically adjusted. "We need your help. Get here now, or I'm teleporting over there to get you in per -"

There was a strange noise and sensation in the back of the car as Mordred teleported in, but the minute he solidified, Helga had grabbed him by the nose and twisted it, skewing his designer sunglasses. "Ow ow ow!" he honked, sounding both stuffed up and aggrieved. "I come in peace, you bint!"

"This Mordred?" She asked him.

Logan nodded, and hung up the phone, tossing the cell in Hel's lap. "That's him."

She let him go, but almost reluctantly. "You do _not_ teleport into my car without warning," she scolded. "Got me?"

He straightened his bottle green lenses, glaring at her and sniffing, sitting back in case she decided to take another pop at him. He may have been made of magic, but he was wisely afraid of Helga. It really was for the best until he could work his way onto her good side. He smoothed back his shoulder length brown hair - even though it was unmussed - and straightened his shirt, even though it didn't need it either. All of it reminded Logan of a cat grooming itself after it did something embarrassing; it was an attempt to save face, to imply _'I meant to do that'_. "Merde. Here I am, playing good Samaritan, and a Stansin nearly rips my nose off. I forgot how … aggressive you women are."

"Hand me my sledgehammer," she asked.

"I meant no disrespect at all," Mordred said hastily. He even pasted on a smile that was probably meant to be charming, but had the slightest hint of desperation about it. "You just startled me, that's all. I assume you're Helga, Bob's … er …"

"Fuck buddy?" she offered dryly.

He held up his hands like he was attempting to fend off the words. "I'd have never have been so indelicate." He paused, then asked, with some hesitation, "You, uh, you're not Helga the Headhunter, are you?"

She stared at him in the rearview mirror. "What, you got connections in the New York demon mob?"

"No, no. It's just a … an unusual name to hear away from the Teutonic and Norse countries."

Helga the Headhunter? Wow - now there was a story he had to hear sometime. But he could see how she got that nickname after seeing her fight. She clearly believed that giving quarter was for suckers.

"Also, I could have sworn I paid Bob back already."

"He died so you didn't have to - you don't think that's worth a favor or two?" Logan pointed out.

Mordred sighed and rolled his eyes, clearly feeling put upon. "Oh fine. But I'm not a member of your little "group", I hope you know."

"Don't worry, we wouldn't want you," Helga replied, starting her car.

"Hey." It was amazing how wounded you could sound with a single syllable. But he brought it on himself, the snobby bastard. Maybe if he survived, he'd learn you never gave Helga an opening like that.

13

14 Years Ago - British Columbia

By the time he reached Vancouver, Truman was already gone.

He could blame it on a lot of things, including a delayed flight (what a great time for the airport to get socked in by fog), but the truth of it was that it just took him too long to get from Alaska to here, especially if Truman knew something was wrong almost immediately. Even his home was already for sale - he and Hannah must have fled almost instantly. Truman had in all likelihood done this before; he was probably a pro at jettisoning everything and starting over with a new identity, new game, new life.

The funny thing was what he left behind - everything. The real estate agent handling the sale of the house had no idea who the "client" was, nor where to find them, but Truman had left all his lackeys and lieutenants behind; they didn't even know he was gone. Which Logan found out when he encountered Nelson at a favorite hang out of his, a dive bar a few blocks west of Chinatown.

Finally he got to live out the dream of beating the ever living shit out of the bastard, but then he realized he had no idea what else to do with him. Was he going to kill him? Was it worth it?

News reports initially treated what happened in Alaska as an "illegal immigrant smuggling ring", making him wonder if the cops got the wrong end of the stick or were simply feeding the media a false report in hopes of not scaring away the ringleader (too late), but eventually the lurid details of a "sex slave ring" got out. Also released was a story about the women rescued from one of the containers, who were apparently unable to adequately describe the man who released them, even though the police wanted him for questioning. Since he knew damn well that the girls could have described him down to his scuffed hiking boots, he figured Natalya was actually trying to protect him, which made him feel a renewed sense of guilt. The cops were attempting to shut down the "ring", both American and Canadian, and as much as he didn't like cops, he figured he could at least help them along.

So ultimately what he did with Nelson was bind his unconscious body with duct tape, and dump him in front of the nearest branch of the RCMP, with a note that identified him as one of Truman's men. He felt a little better about himself after doing that, so that first night, he managed to round up five more of them, keeping the beatings to an efficient minimum and tossing them to the cops like offerings of regret. Yes, all of these men would happily identify him, but all they had was one name - he was now glad that he went outside Truman's circle to get a realistic fake driver's license. They didn't know the name he had on that card. And he had ultimate faith in his ability to keep one step ahead of the cops. After all, he had nothing - he was still homeless, still living in his truck, and all because the idea of officially settling in one place scared the shit out of him. It turned out now that that was the smartest move he could have made, a survival tactic that had paid off in spades. Even with a name and a description, the homeless had a tendency not to exist in anyone's mind; they were easily and instantly ignorable, even by the cops. Besides, he could tell them nothing about Truman's operation; he didn't even know it was a slave ring until he opened that container.

Although the cops didn't come out and say how they were rounding up so many of Truman's men, they did put out a press release about the illegality of vigilantism (ha!), and released a vague sketch of him as a "person of interest". But it was so vague it hardly looked like him, and he found if he aggressively slathered stinky depilatory on his face (it seemed to keep the hair off longer than shaving did, although ultimately that wasn't saying much), he looked even less like his identikit sketch.

The rest of Truman's troops tried to go underground or escape, but if they remained in B.C., he had no doubt at all he could find them. And if they did flee but remained in Canada, he had little doubt he'd find them eventually; he had nothing but time. The funny thing was, it wasn't capture by cops that they were afraid of.

Finally the night came that he hadn't been looking forward to. He found Fitz drinking in a reproduction of a British pub in Surrey. He had liked Fitz too, but ultimately it didn't matter. Being a relatively decent bloke didn't give you the right to otherwise sell kids in your off hours.

He just sat on the stool next to him, ordering a beer and nursing it as he tried to decide what to say. Fitz knew he was there, but said nothing either, although he got points for not trying to run away. Eventually, though, he was the one to break the ice. "It's you, isn't it? The guy hunting us down," Fitz said, and he sounded strangely defeated.

"Why do you say that?" He didn't deny it; he was curious how he knew.

Fitz shrugged, swirling the dregs of his beer around the bottom of his mug. "Maybe because you never really fit in too well; Nelson used to think that maybe you were an undercover cop or something. You just seemed to always be hiding something, and it was hard to get a bead on you. Or maybe 'cause Nelson was beaten so bad they could only identify him through his fingerprints."

"He was a total fuck."

"You don't need to convince me. It was easy to see why the army kicked him out." He sighed, and after a moment added, "I don't want to fight you."

"Then don't. If you go in of your own accord and offer names, they'll probably cut a deal with you and let you go. You're small fry."

"Yeah, I guess. You know I'll probably have to give 'em your name."

"Yeah, I know. Go ahead." At least he admitted it. After a moment of silence, where they each enjoyed a mouthful of beer, Logan asked him, "Who were those assholes who attacked us in the garage that one time?"

"Oh, they were the Russian mob."

He sounded serious, and it didn't smell like he was lying, but it was still hard to believe. "The Russian mob operates in Vancouver?"

"I know, sounds like bullshit doesn't it? But if what I heard is correct, they're trying to establish a beachhead here, and they were pretty pissed off that Truman had a whole trafficking thing, because that's their thing."

"Is it?" This felt significant; this felt like further redemption. "You don't know where I can find these guys, do you?"

He gave him an odd look, a sort of _'you must be joking' _stare, but did say, "Yeah, I hear their home base is a club downtown, but dude, these are some major league bad asses. You can't just waltz in there and start beating people up."

He shrugged and grunted noncommittally, figuring that's exactly what he should do. He had no idea why, but he had a strange feeling he really hated mobsters and crime families, even though he couldn't say why.

Fitz did turn himself in, much to his relief. And the next night, he found the club where the Russian mafia gathered, and walked in with nothing but the handguns he liberated from Nelson hidden beneath his jacket. He sat at the bar and ordered a vodka, aware that everyone was staring at him. Strangers just didn't come in here; they should have known better. A big goon built like a bear and stinking of cheap cigars came up to him and started acting chummy, figuring he was a turned around tourist who needed a hasty but not too suspicious escort out of here. But as soon as he knocked back his vodka, he looked at the goon, with his heavily pomaded hair and gold tooth smile, and told him, point blank, "I'm not lost. I'm here to shut you fuckers down." He then punched him in the stomach and popped his claws.

He didn't remember a lot about that night, as he discovered that he could forget things if he really wanted to, and there was really nothing he wanted to remember there. It was a bloody fight all the way, and a bit of a scary one, as something came out in him that he didn't realize was there. It almost felt like another personality, someone else, a being made of a rage so absolute that it felt like it swamped him, overwhelmed him, drowned him. And the thing about this "other" self? It could fight - really fight. It was a madman, not so much impervious to pain as totally oblivious to it; it just didn't care how much you hurt it, it just served to feed its already overwhelming rage. It almost enjoyed the pain, because it served its purpose. It frightened him, and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to meet that side of himself ever again. He wasn't completely convinced it _was_ him, as stupid and impossible as that sounded.

He'd had the foresight to rent a room at a local no-tell motel, but he was too injured to make his way back there; he woke up in the back of his truck, covered in blood and hot from healing, a small collection of damaged bullets scattered around him, expelled by his body during the process. He made his way to the motel and took a long, hot shower, washing all the blood off, and burned what was left of the clothes he was wearing in a trash can. He washed most of the ashes down the drain.

According to the paper, it was one of the largest slaver rings ever uncovered - but they still didn't have Truman, and they probably never would. He had surely skipped the country, and he might never be found. He should have killed him when he had the chance.

He had money left, lots of money, and he didn't want it anymore. He saved out just enough for a serious drinking session, and shoved the rest of the money through the mail slot of a charity that worked with street kids and immigrants, the easily exploited; maybe they could do some good with the money. He didn't want to continue profiting from other people's misery.

That night he found a bar he'd never been in before, and ordered an insane amount of booze. Even the bartender, a grizzled Inuit with the ghost of a white scar bisecting his upper lip, gave him a funny look, and asked, "What're you tryin' to do, drink yourself to death?"

"Yep," Logan agreed, starting to shotgun everything - beer after beer, vodka shot after vodka shot, whiskey after whiskey. If he shotgunned everything within a brief amount of time, he could almost feel the alcohol; he felt a warm kind of numb peace, a lightheaded feeling that was so enjoyable he hated to see it go. Why couldn't his healing factor just let him have it a little longer?

As soon as he drank away all his money, he went back to his truck and sat on his bedroll, wondering if he ever had a family who missed him, who wondered where he was, who wondered whatever happened to him. He didn't know if it would make him feel better or not.

He wrote a confession letter, explaining how he'd gotten involved with Truman, and how honestly horrified he was when he discovered what Truman was involved in. Without going into specifics, he mentioned that he knew what it felt like to be enslaved, to be at the total mercy of others, and he never wished that on any other person. If he could do anything about it, he'd make sure that no one ever had to feel that way again, and he did the best he could to rectify it, even though he knew there was nothing he could do. There was no atoning for this particular sin, although he wanted it noted for the record that he tried.

He folded up the letter and put it on his jacket, which he had taken off and laid beside him. Then he put his fist to his chest, just over his heart, and popped his claws.

0 


	11. Chapter 11

14

By the time they reached the office, Naomi was back, and the Sisters were waiting for them, much to Giles's disapproval. (Logan wondered why there was a ten pound bag of kosher salt on Brendan's desk, but he figured if it was important, someone would tell him.) Bren was sitting behind his desk, looking a paler greenish-blue than usual, and he knew he'd been hurt a lot more than he'd been letting on. He'd have made a comment about the macho bullshit, but he was too guilty of it himself to mention it.

There had been an even cooler re-acquaintance between Giles and Mordred when Faith showed up, meaning the gang was all here. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, whispering in his ear, "I got the job," before giving him a playful little love bite on his earlobe. But that was the last of her ebullience; she went immediately stone cold sober. If she noticed Helga's tail wrapped around his right arm, she didn't mention it, but maybe she didn't see it. Logan was sitting perched on the arm of the sofa, and Helga was sitting on the end of the couch beside him - Faith remained standing beside him, arms crossed over her chest like she was mildly embarrassed by her dressier than usual shirt. Was she really self-conscious about that?

He wondered if life would be easier if he wasn't constantly hooking up with aggressive women. Then he remembered how needlessly meek people pissed him off, and he guessed no. Truth be told, the pushy women were just that much more fun.

Giles laid out the problem as it currently stood, and Logan heard nothing new, but a few more details emerged from the story Bren had hastily told him. He'd barely finished his story when Mordred, dressed not unlike a very fashionable and upscale gigolo, interrupted to ask, "Where was he trying to go?"

Giles frowned at him, and replied, with unusual sarcasm, "To Bob's Big Boy. He was trying to leave, Mordred, that's all."

"Yes, but why? If he wanted a bite to eat, he could have just had you."

"Not with me there," Bren said.

Mordred scoffed and waved his hand dismissively. "You're a two second kill. Neither of you were any threat to him at all."

"Logan is," the kid pointed out, now joining Giles in the scowling sweepstakes.

Mordred must have noticed the evil looks he was getting, but he didn't care. "Yes, but vamp hearing and smelling. He knew he wasn't here, and he's fast enough that even if Logan showed up just as he was out the door, he'd have never caught up to him."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Faith interjected. "Logan's fast. A hell of a lot faster than you'd expect a guy loaded down with metal to be."

"He's all muscle," Hel agreed. "It's why he looks so good naked."

"Damn right," Faith concurred. Logan looked down at the floor and slapped a hand over his mouth so he didn't laugh. He'd be embarrassed if it wasn't funny that Hel and Faith had found something to heartily agree on, and it was him nude.

Mordred continued his hand wave thing, probably feeling brave since he was across the room from Helga. "All beside the point. Angel had to know that you two were the only ones currently here. Now if Mr. Claws or the Slayer were here - or her green terribleness -" he nodded towards Helga, and in spite of the way he worded it, it sounded almost respectful (of course - he still didn't want to end up on Helga the Headhunter's shit list), "- I could understand him wanting to flee. But he essentially had the whole place to himself. Why would he want to go?"

If looks could kill, Giles would have been charged with first degree murder - but since it was Mordred he was glaring at, no jury in the world would have convicted him. "If you have a point, make it."

"What if he's being drawn somewhere?"

An odd point, and an interesting one. "Do I start with why or how?" Bren wondered, glancing at him. Logan just shrugged.

Mordred sighed, as if they were all the most silliest and stupid people in the world. "If you just want to turn Angel evil and unleash him on the world, there are easier ways that don't involve dangerous heaps of black magic. Whoever did this to him has been planning it for a while. They even screwed over Wolfram and Hart, if that woman was telling the truth -"

"She was," Logan interrupted crossly.

Mordred conceded the point with a nod, probably because Hel still had her tail wrapped around his arm. It seemed to send the message _'Fuck with him, you fuck with me'_ and it had already been established that Mordred didn't want to do that. "So whoever this person is, they're going to an awful lot of trouble. And for what? They haven't just turned him evil, they've upgraded him. Why would they do that? As a favor to Angel? I don't think so."

Bren nodded in agreement, although he seemed surprised by it. "He's faster, stronger, caught in mid-transition, and seems to have the power of mesmerism now."

"Mesmerism?" Faith exclaimed. She apparently hadn't heard about that bit. "Cool."

Giles shot her a harsh look, but turned back to Mordred. "I agree, it doesn't make sense - but what does? What benefit could anyone get out of this?"

"Is that really for us to figure out?" Logan finally said, thinking aloud. "Whoever is doing this must have some plans for Angel, and maybe until we know the person we won't be able to figure out their ultimate goal."

"So what are you suggesting?" Giles seemed to be asking Mordred that.

"Let him go. Let him escape successfully, and follow him to wherever he goes."

Nearly everyone looked shocked at that suggestion, but there were some people who didn't, notably Helga and the Sisters. But then again, the Sisters never seemed to react to anything.

"Are you nuts?" Bren asked, genuinely curious.

Giles, for his part, seemed indignant. "We can't follow him. He's too fast, and I have no guarantee a tracing spell will work on him anymore."

"We -"

"- can -"

"- follow him -"

"- he's our -"

"- Daddy. We always -"

"- know where he -"

"- is."

Mordred smiled triumphantly and gestured back at the girls, although he was careful not to look at them directly. He wasn't about to admit they creeped him out too, but clearly they did. "See? We have trackers. Angel can't escape."

Giles was shaking his head, though. "He moves too fast for you to keep up now."

"Speed -"

"- is -"

"- irrelevant. We -"

"- once followed -"

"- him from Moscow -"

"- to Pyongyang, he -"

"- can't escape from us."

Knowledge that probably cheered Angel up no end - well, when he was in his right mind. And then there was the fact that they seemed to know when Angel was gone from this plane, and also knew when he was back. That was beyond the usual sire/sired connection, wasn't it? The girls were odd, and their connection to him was equally odd.

Giles shook his head. "This won't work. He could kill people and you wouldn't get there in time to stop him." He then favored them with a hard glare. "Not that you'd be inclined to stop him."

The Sisters just gave Giles a matching set of brilliant, empty smiles that were far scarier than any scowl ever could be. He thought he noticed Giles repressing a shudder.

"I think Angel is a means to an end," Mordred continued. "He's just a piece in the puzzle. We have to risk it; we have to let him escape and see where he leads us. It might be our only way of solving this thing."

"How convenient of you to risk other people's lives," Giles snapped.

"I think he has a point," Naomi said, with great reluctance. It wasn't so much the risking of people's lives that bothered her as much as agreeing with Mordred about anything. "We've just been chasing our tails here; we've made no progress at all. We've got to do something before Angel's stuck like this for good. If it's not already too late."

Giles clearly didn't like it. A muscle in his jaw jumped as he glanced around the room, taking a measure of everyone. If anyone disagreed, it wasn't obvious; in fact, it was more then probable that the agreement was unanimous. No one had a better plan.

Giles huffed a sigh through his nose, still deeply unhappy with this whole thing. "If he kills anyone, it's on your head," he said to Mordred.

Mordred just shrugged. "I'll just add them to the pile. Now, let's figure out a way for Angel to escape, shall we?"

The problem there was making it seem realistic. If he sensed a trap, he wouldn't play along.

So maybe it was a good thing Mordred was almost as gifted in bullshit as Bob was.

* * *

Even though he knew that most of the mythology surrounding Mordred was a lie, it was hard to shake it completely from his mind. Giles tried, of course, but the fact that he was a smug little pillock didn't help at all. 

Naomi, Logan, Brendan, and Helga had left, taking the salt with them, presumably to take it to Broom's house. But in truth only Brendan and Naomi had headed there - Logan and Helga were actually waiting in the empty office directly below them, along with the Weird Sisters. It was far enough away that Angel wouldn't smell them, but close enough that they could come to the rescue if things didn't go as planned.

The plan, as it was, was this: Mordred was going to "fake" a cleansing spell with Giles assisting - so Angel would think they were trying to rid him of this "scourge" currently afflicting him. Faith was standing by, presumably as guard.

Angel was still out, but just barely. They'd handcuffed his hands behind his back (they were all sure he could break them), and after that Mordred had ripped open Angel's shirt and started drawing sacred runes on his chest with a pulpy, dark mixture of wolfsbane, silver nitrate, and mulberry - all necessary to the actual spell. They were going to make the spell as real as possible, so Angel didn't guess it was a bluff. Mordred wanted to do everything real, but he was going to speak the words of the spell in the wrong order, and in Latin instead of Egyptian Arabic, all of which should guarantee it wouldn't work.

Actually the idea that a cleansing spell would work was naïve at best, but with the power of someone like Mordred behind it, there was a slim possibility that it could work. They were counting on Angel knowing that too. (What effect it would actually have on Angel - if any - was unclear, which is why they weren't really doing the spell.)

A circle of ground chalk was sprinkled around Angel, making him the center, and that's precisely when he regained consciousness. Mordred started sprinkling rosemary into a candle flame as he began intoning the spell, and Angel sat up, looking mildly alarmed. He glanced down at his chest and noted the symbols drawn upon it, then looked up at the pair of them. His eyes were lambent with rage. "What the fuck is this?"

Giles, who was standing beyond the circle and holding the mortar full of the smelly wolfsbane/silver nitrate/mulberry mixture, fixed him with a weary stare. "It's for your own good. Just be still and it shouldn't hurt."

Panic flashed through his eyes, quickly turning to fury. "You think this arrogant bastard even knows what he's doing? He fucked up so bad he put himself in a coma."

Mordred scoffed, and replied dryly, "I didn't fuck up; some demi-gods fucked me up. I guess they thought I was going to destroy the world or something and got touchy about it. You know what drama queens they can be." He then cleared his throat and went back to the slightly off-kilter spell.

He growled and rolled up to his knees, which made Faith step closer to the circle. "Hey. I don't wanna kick your ass, but I will. So don't make me."

He sneered at her, but it turned into a half-smile. "Of course, Faith - slayer number two. How does that feel, huh? Always being the also ran; number two. The one who isn't Buffy. Must stick in your craw."

Faith's expression remained unchanged, but her eyes became a bit stonier. "This isn't high school any more, Angel. Get over it. I did."

He snickered. "No you didn't. Oh, you didn't graduate high school either, did you? And you've done jail time. You're just the white trash poster girl, aren't you?"

"And ain't you just the poster boy for my Human boyfriend kicking your undead ass all over this building?" She shot back.

Angel snarled, and he seemed to be testing the cuffs behind his back. It was hard not to tense, because he knew when Angel made his move, it would be faster than any of them could be ready for. "Human? He's barely Human. And he's nearly as unstable as you are - oh hell, he's worse. You know how many times people better and stronger than he could ever hope to be have taken out his brain and played with it? He thinks all the triggers are gone, but he's wrong. Your boyfriend, sweetheart, is a ticking time bomb, and when he goes off, he won't know who the hell you are; he'll just kill you, sure as shit, as that's all he's ever been good for. That is, if I don't do it first."

And with that, Angel made his move. One second he was kneeling inside the circle; the next, he had already jumped to his feet and punched Faith so hard she went flying across the room, hitting the back of the sofa and taking it over with her as she hit the floor. Giles didn't actually see the transition; he took a step forward, intending to go to Faith, but then Mordred was thrown into him and they both went slamming back against Angel's desk, the edge biting hard enough into his back to slice his skin.

By the time he pushed Mordred aside and caught his breath, Angel was long gone. The front office door gaped open, and he didn't remember hearing it happen.

He knew Mordred was okay since he was cursing, so he staggered towards the tipped over couch. "Faith?"

There was no immediate reply, but the couch shifted slightly, and she finished shoving it aside with her feet. "Fuck, what the hell was that?" She started to use the couch to get back to her feet, but he held out his hand and she reluctantly took it. "When you said he was fast, you weren't kidding. I didn't even see him break the cuffs. How did Logan catch him when he ran?"

"I jumped down the stairwell," Logan said, coming inside and making a beeline for her. "You okay?"

She nodded, although she seemed to be having a little trouble catching her breath. Giles hadn't seen where she was punched, but since her face wasn't bruised, he suspected a body shot. She leaned over and kissed Logan on the cheek, which seemed to puzzle him. "What was that for?"

"For kicking his ass," she said, still trying to catch her breath. He still looked confused.

"Okay, he's in the sewers, heading west towards downtown," Helga reported, standing in the doorway. She had a cell phone glued to her ear. "The Sisters say he's far enough ahead of them that he doesn't realize they're behind him."

"What's downtown?" Logan asked, looking around. "He's headed in the wrong direction for Wolfram and Hart."

Giles shook his head - he hadn't lived in Los Angeles long enough to know where everything was. "I have no clue."

"I guess we'll find out soon enough," Mordred said, rubbing the side of his head.

Somehow that didn't sound promising.

* * *

The sky had began to turn a weird, intense reddish-orange with a hint of brown, an odd color that could only happen in L.A., with its often frightening layer of smog. The traffic wasn't too bad for this time of day, but Bren suspected part of their mobility was dictated by the fact that they were riding on Naomi's customized motorcycle (he was in the so called "bitch seat", holding on to her waist and hoping against hope he didn't get an accidental shock), and she could go "off road" - which she did, cutting through suspicious alleys whenever possible, as well as vacant lots and parking lots. It made him want to hold on tighter, in spite of the potential for a nasty shock. The salt was in a backpack he had the misfortune to wear, so it felt like a very strong midget wrestler was trying to slowly break his back. 

He wondered how the others were doing, and if Angel had escaped yet. It wasn't fair that they sent him away, he could have helped, but Giles was probably thinking of his previous outburst, and Logan knew he was still a bit bruised. Poor Naomi just got roped into babysitting him, but she took it well - she didn't want to have to bake Angel if she absolutely didn't have to. The funny thing was she probably felt a greater loyalty to Angel than almost anyone, except perhaps Faith; Angel was the first friend she ever had after her mutant induced amnesia. As far as she knew, Angel had saved her life. Logan had as well, but she had to be told that, as she had no memory of that part, and Logan - of course - didn't like to talk about it.

The part of Topanga Canyon that Broom lived in looked more like an upscale suburb than anything else, and Bren was faintly disappointed. He was hoping they were headed for a rich guy's McMansion, with an obnoxious Hummer parked in the semi-circular driveway, proclaiming for all the world _"I have a small penis complex, and I don't give a fuck who knows it". _

As Naomi swung around the corner of Broom's street, she slowed down to a reasonable speed for the first time in ten miles, and shouted, "What's the address again?"

He repeated it in annoyance, looking over her shoulder at the left side of the street, which was where his house should have been, and was suddenly baffled by what he saw.

It was a condo. Not just a condo, but a condo under construction. The sign on the site said they'd be available for purchase in the fall.

"And you never make mistakes, right?" Naomi asked as she idled the motorcycle. It was so well tuned the engine seemed to purr.

He frowned at the back of her head. "Eidetic memory - I can't make mistakes. That's exactly what he told us. I could repeat our entire conversation with him verbatim. Should I?"

"Jeeze, there's no need to get defensive, Bren. I was just askin'." She scowled at the site as if it would give up any answers, but it didn't. The foundation was poured, but that was all; there wasn't even a framework for the building in place. "He lied to us. Why?"

He shook his head as he looked around the neighborhood, seeing if anyone was around. No one seemed to be watching, so he briefly let his Brachen side out and sniffed the air. If anyone was lying in wait for them, he couldn't smell it or see it. "I don't think it's a trap."

"I'd guess he was already possessed by the Qutrub, but why would he alert us to his presence if we didn't know? That doesn't make sense, unless he's completely suicidal."

Bren nodded in agreement. It didn't make sense. So someone showed up, gave them a realistic but phony story, and gave them a phony address; he was willing to bet he didn't work for the bank either, and that Miles Broom wasn't his real name. So if the point wasn't to ambush them or set them up, what was the point?

"Distraction," he gasped, thinking aloud. "Oh holy shit, what if it was just to keep us busy?"

"For what purpose -" she began, but then petered off as she realized, "Oh shit: Angel."

"I think we met the bad guy," he said, digging in his pocket for his cell phone. But even as he hit speed dial, he wasn't certain there was anyone there to answer. So the bad guy or one of his lackeys came in with a bullshit story about a vicious demon to keep them scattered while they worked their evil mojo on Angel. Why? What did it get him?

He wondered if they'd figure it out before it killed them all.

15

Xander wondered how cops did it.

Stakeouts were dead boring - no, worse; some of the dead people he knew were quite lively. This was like watching drywall set, and he knew for a fact that was a solid indication you had no life at all. He was glad he brought his iPod, but still he wished he had downloaded some t.v. episodes or videos or something, something he could look at beyond all these sharply (yet similarly dressed) lawyers coming and going from this massive building, which was as heartlessly sleek as most modern skyscrapers. But this one seemed to radiate its own special brand of cool menace, although he couldn't say how or why. Maybe it was simply a vibe.

He suspected this was "make busy" work, given to him to get him out of the way. He was the Human, and with all the shit going down, they didn't want him in the way. But wasn't he grateful? He honestly didn't like Angel, or Logan, and while he thought Naomi was pretty attractive, he barely knew her. He liked Giles, he liked Faith … and that was about it. But he did owe Logan, he had to admit that, and maybe he wasn't too bad for a completely freaky, "used to be a bad guy and a cop or something" guy with knives in his hands and a nose that could apparently tell you what you've had for breakfast all week. Still, did Faith _have _to sleep with him? It gave him a bit of a wiggins just to think about it. Sure, Logan was technically Human, and that was good, but he was a deeply scary Human, the kind you didn't want to meet in a dark alley at four in the morning; hell, he'd rather encounter a vampire - them he was used to.

He was hungry, and searched his glove box for something to eat. He passed over the snack sized bags of stale potato chips and opted instead for the single Twinkie. He had no idea when he last ate a Twinkie, but he figured these things were so chock full of preservatives that they could be left in a mausoleum for several years and still taste as fresh as the day they were extruded. He bit into it and was gratified to discover he was right.

He was wolfing down the last of the sticky cake and wondering if he should try the potato chips - Twinkies just weren't that filling - when he saw a huge black painted van emerge from the side of the building's drive. It almost looked more like an urban assault vehicle than an SUV …

This was it, wasn't it? They were moving out.

He had his car idling for the air conditioner, so all he had to do was signal and wait for it to drive by before pulling into traffic after them. Someone honked at him, but he ignored it (everybody honked in L.A.). He pulled out his cell phone and called Giles, who had finally given in to the twenty first century and gotten one.

Still, he must have not turned his ringer on, as he went straight to his voice mail. "Hey, Giles, it's me. It looks like your evil lawyers are on the move. Right now we seem to be headed for Sepulveda. When I have a more firm location, I'll call you back." He cut the connection but kept the phone on, tossing it into the passenger seat.

Technically they had told him not to follow, just to let them know when something happened. But who needed a mystical tracer when you could ride their ass all the way there?

See, he was good for _something_.

* * *

14 Years Ago - British Columbia

He couldn't believe he woke up.

He did so tasting blood in his mouth, feeling his chest burning as his heart seemed to pound triple time, and he gasped like he had been drowning, back arching unconsciously as he rolled over on his side and began to cough, deeply and painfully. His pulse pounded in his temples, and as soon as the pain faded enough for him to move, he looked down at his bedroll and his chest. There was blood, dark and arterial, almost dried, on his torso, soaked into the top of his jeans, and pooling on the sleeping bag, but it was barely a mud puddle's worth of blood. Certainly not lethal; not even close. Maybe enough to make him woozy.

That didn't make sense. He should be dead. Why wasn't he dead? How could his healing abilities work if he was dead?

They couldn't. So he never actually died. What the fuck happened? He cut an artery, and within the space of thirty seconds his ability had healed up the wound, preventing his actual death. It had to have happened in under a minute, simply because the death should have been almost instantaneous. How could he heal that fast from a mortal injury? He didn't understand it. He wanted to give up, but his body wouldn't let him. His body was a traitor to him. Somehow that figured.

For the next two days, he contemplated what he was going to do. He considered other ways of killing himself, but he honestly didn't know if they would work. Drowning might, but he had memories of drowning, of water being painfully drawn into his lungs, and he knew it might actually kill him, but he couldn't bear the thought of it. Could he starve to death?

He was so depressed he thought that might be worth a shot, and he slept most of the time, deciding he wanted nothing to do with reality, and maybe if he rejected it, it would reject him. But then the dreams came, the memories, and sleep no longer offered any refuge. He realized he was going to have to make a decision - he was going to have to figure out a way to die, or figure out what he was going to do with himself otherwise.

He wondered how he was going to do that.

* * *

They didn't run after Angel and the Sisters - they were counting on the Sisters to tell them when he came to a stop. Mordred would teleport them all there to the site. 

This was a two fold plan, as it also allowed Mordred, Giles, and Faith time to recover, and they needed it. Everyone pretended they weren't hurt that bad, but Logan knew they were. He could smell the blood on Giles, and Mordred kept rubbing his arm like it was bothering him.

He and Faith had righted the couch, and they were both sitting on it, Faith leaning against him with her eyes closed. She said she was "recharging", and he supposed she was, but Giles had said something to her about "ignoring Angel", which made Logan wonder what he'd said to her. If he insulted his girlfriend, he felt honor bound to go kick Angel's ass again. Actually kick it twice, as he had already scheduled a beat down for hitting his girlfriend. Helga just sat at Angel's desk, wondering if she should trade in her sledgehammer for one of Angel's battle axes. Logan thought it might be a good idea, as it was painlessly lethal used properly, and he knew Hel could use it properly.

The Sisters finally called Hel with a location, and she reported it, although no one could quite believe it. As they got in a circle - it was easier for Mordred to teleport them all that way - Giles's phone rang, and he answered it, even as Mordred scowled at him. He was close enough to Giles that he could hear it was Bren on the phone. "It's him," he said, sounding almost like he was shouting. "Broom is the bad guy -"

There was a momentary interruption in his message as Mordred teleported them all to where the Sisters and Angel were, and then the momentary interruption became permanent, as the cell phone signal dropped off completely.

But Logan only noted that peripherally. Because right now he was only concerned with the fact that they were in a place reeking of Human blood. Fresh Human blood.

They were too late. The place was now a slaughterhouse.

0 


	12. Chapter 12

They materialized in a large bank, an upscale one where the floor was tile mosaic, white with a vague fleur-de-lis design on it in blue, gold, and black. Now it was stained red, the fluid spread in even splashes that almost made a pattern overlaying the tiles. Logan counted seven bodies, mostly young adult, cut open down the center from scalp to crotch for maximum bloodletting. He could vaguely remember once being told that "blood magic" was the most powerful, and he knew this place just stank of power.

Mordred, who was standing right next to him, had time to say, "Uh oh," before he was hit by … something. His head snapped back and he crumpled to the floor in a heap. "Nice one," a man said, his voice gravelly and slightly inhuman.

He followed the sound towards a man standing near the chained front doors. He looked like a regular Human, hands curled into fists at his sides, but his eyes were pure black, and there were black veins visible beneath the thin skin of his face, pulsing with dark energy; it made it look like there were worms burrowing their way into him.

"Brendan was right," Giles muttered.

So this was Broom, huh? Logan lunged towards him, preparing to pop his claws at the last second (no sense in spoiling the surprise), but Giles shouted, "No!"

He knew why the second he seemed to slam into an invisible wall, and slid to the floor barely two feet from where he had been. Faith came to his side, and asked, "You okay?"

His nose had broken on impact, he could taste the blood on his lips, but he could already feel the painful beginning of healing as his cartilage started to knit itself back together. "Just a little humiliated," he told her, sitting back on his ass.

"We're in a sacred circle," Giles said, by way of explanation. "Or perhaps I should say unholy circle. We can't get out."

"Good, Watcher," Broom said, his voice just a register above a snarl. "You … people are far more resourceful than I anticipated. You brought along a honest to god wizard, if I read his aura right, and you sent monsters after the monster." He nodded towards the back of the room, and glancing that way, he saw that the Sisters, in full vamp face, seemed to be trapped in a room behind the teller's cages. Presumably they were caught in one of these circles as well. "And then … whatever _that _is -" he hardly even needed to look to see he was referring to him " - and a Stansin. You're a Slayer, aren't you girlie?"

"Eat me raw, you jacked up fuckhead," Faith snarled, helping him stand up again. Logan rolled his head like he was working the kinks out of his neck, mainly so Broom didn't notice how his nose was resetting itself. If he thought he was a "thing" now, wait until he saw that.

"I told you she's a nasty one," Angel said, punctuating the statement with a tiger's growl. He came around from behind the teller's cages with blood smeared across his mouth, his shirt open and purplish symbols smudged across his bare chest. Had Angel killed someone, or had he just had a little sip from all the available blood around here? He really didn't know, but he hoped for Angel's sake he just took a slurp from the trough. "She should be really fun."

"I'm fun," Helga pointed out, her tail twitching in irritation as she twirled the battle axe in her hands. "Me love you long time. Drop the field and I'll show you."

Broom snickered. "Oh, I'm sure you would. If I was that stupid, I'd deserve to get my head chopped off."

Angel stood just behind Broom's left shoulder, his expression seemingly stuck in a permanent sneer. "The wizard might be more dangerous than you think. He's Mordred."

"Mordred?" Broom replied curiously. "What, King Arthur's bastard son?"

"He wasn't actually King Arthur's -" Angel began.

""What do you plan to do with us?" Giles interrupted. He didn't want Angel telling him who Mordred really was? Why? Oh, yeah - Mordred just appeared unconscious. But if Broom learned he was Merlin's son, he might kill him while he still had the chance. He was a hell of a lot more powerful than he looked … or seemed, or acted. "Actually, what the bloody hell did you to do Angel? Did he kill your family or something?"

That pulled Broom's attention away, and he leered at them. "Oh yes, this is the part where the villain tells our trapped heroes his huge, glorious plan, therefore buying themselves time for a rescue. What, you think I didn't notice the little Brachen boy and the electric bitch weren't here? And whoever that Human was, the one with the glass eye." Xander, obviously. "No, that's not what's going to happen here, Rupert. But I will let you in on a little secret. There are Qutrubs in Los Angeles. There's actually a rather large nest of them."

Were the bodies on the floor moving? Not exactly; there were things moving _in them_, fine feelers of black and gold and yellow - or were they thin tentacles? - that took up the edges of the wound and started closing them from the inside. "You know how I know this?" Broom continued, smiling like his face might split in half. "I brought them with me. They have amazing loyalty, especially to the man that saved them from the brink of extinction, and then treats them to such fine delicacies." Now the corpses started to move, as their wounds seemed to seal up completely. Clumsy limbs slapped the floor and eventually found purchase, the movements growing easier as the demons got used to their new homes. "I mean, they're mundane to you, but they haven't had Southern Californians before. To them, they're a real treat."

As the former dead got to their feet, blood soaked and making noises that sounded like a growling kind of clicking, there was moment from the far side of the room, and they all saw what must have been Qutrubs outside of their Human shells. They looked almost like skinks, long and slender, but with shiny carapaces - brown and black looked to be the most common colors - bullet shaped heads and compound eyes, moving on what seemed like dozens upon dozens of whip thin tentacles - slash - legs that undulated like seaweed in a tidal pool as they slid across the tiles towards them. They made hardly any noise at all as they moved, and they were amazingly fast; they were also at least two feet long, a rather large size for bodily invasion. They chewed their way in, didn't they? Yeah, that was probably it.

"But as you can see, there's too many of them, and not enough hosts. What to do, eh?"

"You monster," Giles replied, with as much anger as he'd ever heard from him. All it did was make Broom's smile wider.

"Everybody, behind me and Logan now," Helga ordered, stepping towards the Qutrubs and raising her battle axe. "Logan, lock and load."

Right - you could kill them by slicing them into pieces. But could he and Helga get them all before they got to Faith, Giles, and Mordred? Well, they had no choice; they had to try. He popped his claws and joined her, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Broom start a bit. "What the hell are those?" he exclaimed. "You some kind of Xentroph demon?"

Angel answered for them. "They're claws, and he's Human … kind of. He's a mutie." He leaned in and staged whispered, so they all could hear it, "We need to kill him first."

"Over my dead body!" Faith shouted angrily, and pulled a knife from her boot. Okay, there were three of them armed - that made the odds a bit better. Not much, mind you, but it gave them made an extra minute of demon free existence.

"Die in whatever order you wish," he said nonchalantly. "No skin off my nose. And when _do _you think your friends will arrive? 'Cause my friends outside are getting hungry."

Logan was mildly relieved they weren't expecting a rescue. Maybe they could keep the fatalities down to a minimum.

* * *

L.A. traffic was just so much fun, Xander thought he might plotz. (And he was always disappointed to use that word since Willow told him it wasn't dirty.) Because of people driving like they were re-enacting key scenes of The Road Warrior, he almost lost the evil lawyer assault vehicle three separate times, but luckily he had seen The Road Warrior enough times to keep up. He even found himself saying, in the worst Australian accent imaginable, "Bullets! Get the bullets!"

God, he was such a geek it was horrible; no wonder he had a hard time keeping a relationship going. But at least it kept him entertained in his pathetic loneliness.

Although night had begun to fall in earnest, he was sure he wasn't delusional when it seemed like the evil lawyers were heading towards the ritzier part of town. Xander had begun to think that evil might have owned the richer parts of town, but they only mucked about in the poorer parts, following the simple rule of not shitting where you were eating (so to speak). But maybe some demons didn't have that kind of foresight, or just didn't give a crap.

They eventually turned down a street just southwest of Rodeo Drive, a place where the businesses were upscale car dealerships and financial institutions of some vague, indeterminate source. But he was fairly certain the big building at the end of the street was a bank, and a rather fancy looking one at that; it was like a cathedral to the god of money (if there was such a god …and there probably was, as there seemed to be a god for every damn thing, including dryer lint and pubic lice). The funny thing was, while there appeared to be lights on in the bank, the rest of the street was strangely unlit, which was really not typical for the better parts of town. In fact, it was so out of the ordinary he felt a shiver down his spine - something bad was happening here, and it was on now.

He picked up his phone to call Giles again (why hadn't he gotten back to him yet?) and that's when he discovered his cell phone wasn't getting a signal at all. But that was okay, because as soon as he got within fifty meters of the joint, his headlights died, and his engine died, leaving him to coast until he pulled the emergency brake. What the fuck was this? Some kind of energy dampening field?

(And they said watching Star Trek would never teach him anything.)

The evil lawyer assault vehicle had clearly suffered the same fate, as it nosed up against the wall of the Mercedes dealership to stop itself, and the back opened and guys in black body armor boiled out like angry ants. They looked to be carrying serious weaponry, but he couldn't recognize the make and model in the dark.

He was far enough back - and it was dark enough - that they didn't seem to realize he had been following them, but almost instantaneously some of them hit the asphalt, writhing as if under attack or in pain, and others started shooting down at the ground, muzzle flashes lighting up the night. What the fuck was this? He didn't see anything, not even movement in the dark, but that didn't mean anything.

He decided to get out and see what was up, swinging his car door open, but as he blindly set his foot down on the pavement, something crunched under his foot. Looking down, he saw he had stepped on something unfamiliar; it looked like a big, snake like bug with maybe a hundred thin legs, some of which were curling around his sneaker, like it was going to push him off its back. A demon? Probably - and if not, it was an alien of some kind, and years of bad horror movies taught him no bug like alien was ever good.

He raised his foot, and stamped down on it repeatedly with all his strength, until its guts squished all over the street. His foot slid slightly as he got out, and slammed the door shut so none of the buggers got in. He went back to the trunk and opened it, as that's where he had his tool kit. In the bottom of his kit he had some random weapons, including stakes and holy water, but he wasn't sure that would work against big bugs. What the hell did he have that would?

Wait - were these Qutrubs? Giles had said they looked like centipedes crossed with squids, and these pretty much fit that description. Did that mean that stamping on them was only a temporary setback to them and nowhere near lethal? Shit. Why didn't he carry a machete or a sword or something?

He took out a crow bar, and a battery operated nail gun. If he couldn't beat them to a paste, maybe he could nail them to the street.

Now he could hear screaming, and he could see the soldiers for the evil lawyers were being attacked by the creepy crawlies, even through the body armor. They were shooting, but either they were crap shots or the bullets didn't hurt them; either way, the group was struggling. Some were ripping the bugs off companions, and others were stomping on them, which seemed to work better than shooting them.

Xander caught the movement of one coming towards him, and he took aim and fired. His first nail missed, but the second caught it dead in the middle, and for a battery operated gun, it was powerful enough to stick it to the pavement. It writhed, trying to free itself, but so far it had no effect. He started "nailing" every one he saw, and when he ran out of nails, he tossed it aside (if he lived, he'd go back and get it later) and started beating them with the claw end of the crowbar, which only punctured their carapaces when he put force into the swing.

One of the soldiers (or whatever they were) must have noticed him, as he came up and snapped, "Why are you out of your armor?"

This is where bullshit and a rapid, clipped tone was probably best deployed. "'Cause it ain't helping, is it? Your guys got knives on 'em?"

The soldier/guard/ whatever the hell he was looked like a mere boy, probably younger than him, which was a distressing thing to realize. Was he actually that old? Shit. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Harris, Tactical Division," he bluffed. Did these people even have a tactical division? He hoped so. "Tell your guys they have to cut these to kill 'em; they're Qutrubs, they don't go down easy."

Whatever the boy was going to say, Xander's words made him pause. "You know what these things are?"

He scoffed in disbelief. "Of course I do. You _don't_?" He figured humiliation would make the boy wilt and not question his authority further. He had a Jonathan quality about him, in spite of the modified assault rifle he was carrying.

He was right. The soldier/guard looked away, presumably at the continuing battle, so Xander couldn't seem him color in shame. "Guys, knives only! We gotta cut these things, now!"

Those still alive and not being gnawed on by the Qutrubs seemed to listen to him, and they put the guns away, pulling out huge versions of military style K-Bars, only ones large enough to gut an adult pig. That should certainly kill a few of them.

He was about to ask the kid if he had a spare one when they were both tackled.

They were grabbed by Humans, both fellow soldiers (or whatever), but the blood coming from their mouths and noses, as well as the strangely blank look in their eyes, seemed to indicate they'd been taken over by the Qutrubs.

Xander tried to fight the guy, even though he was almost two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, but the guy wasn't actually trying to hurt him. Weirdly enough, he was content to pin his arms down with his hands, and his legs down with his knees. The same was true of the soldier who'd grabbed the Jonathan like group leader. He wondered why, until he saw a couple of nice, long Qutrubs, their copper colored carapaces barely visible in the dimness, undulating towards the both of them.

Oh crap.

16

It was clear they were going to lose. The only question was when.

It made Logan frantic to think he might survive this all by himself, so he quickly sliced up as many as he could, leaving claw marks in the tiles. The Qutrub seemed to start avoiding him, but Helga and Faith weren't giving them an easy time of it either. Yet Qutrubs were quite literally dropping from the ceiling; even if they did cut up as many as they could, they would drown in them eventually.

Although Broom - or whatever his name was - was enjoying the show, he and Angel took to talking amongst themselves, and were luckily looking away when Logan felt something tug on his leg. He pivoted, his claws dripping gore, but it wasn't a Qutrub crawling up his calf - it was Mordred, still laying flat out on the floor, but looking up at him imploringly. _"Cut me," _he mouthed, holding up his hand.

Logan wondered if one of the Qutrubs had gotten past and burrowed into him, but he remembered what he'd thought earlier, about blood magic being the most powerful.

He obeyed, and sliced a claw shallowly across his palm. Mordred grimaced in pain, but then said something that sounded inhuman and slammed his palm down on the floor, at the edge of the circle.

Broom's head snapped around as the spell of the circle immediately collapsed.

Logan didn't wait. He launched himself towards Broom, while Helga took a chance and threw her battle axe. Broome shouted a spell that sent the axe boomeranging back, and Angel met Logan in mid-lunge, the two of them colliding in air and slamming back to the Qutrub littered floor.

Angel had grabbed his wrists and was trying to hold them away from him, clearly aware of and afraid of the damage his claws could do to even an undead body. The funny thing was, Angel was so incredibly strong right now, he could actually do it; Logan couldn't wrench his arms from his grip. But Angel was on top of him, and he was so concerned about avoiding his claws, he'd left his body wide open.

Logan rammed his knee right up into his nuts - fair's fair; he'd done that to him earlier - and wedged his leg up, kicking Angel off him. But Angel held on to his wrists, and the two of them went rolling across the floor as they struggled for supremacy, not so much a fight as a wrestling match. The mystical equivalent was also occurring between Broom and Mordred, with some assistance from Giles, but Broom's mystical force field was holding, protecting him from harm, and while Hel and Faith were still battling the Qutrub, it was once again clear they were going to lose badly, miserably.

Was that gunshots outside? Logan was fairly sure he heard faint bursts from automatic weapons beyond the thick walls of the bank. Were those Broom's men, or someone fighting Broom's men? Who did they know who had automatic weapons? He'd loosely trained Bren how to handle a gun (Scott frowned on firearms), but he'd never taught him how to handle an assault rifle.

A mystical wind was kicking up inside the bank, tidal surges of pure power, and Logan decided to give it one last shot. "Angel - you're his bitch! His fucking lackey! Aren't you better than that?"

But his yellow eyes were hard and empty - he was gone, utterly and completely. "You're going to die, mutie."

Logan knew then what he had to do. He struggled in vain against Angel's grip, and told him, "You ain't man enough to kill me." He snapped his head up, smashing his forehead square into Angel's face.

Angel knew he'd probably do that, but Logan had moved fast, and although Angel had pulled away, he still caught the blow on the bridge of his nose. His nose shattered, blood pouring out of the nostrils.

He snarled, a noise just short of a dragon's roar, so full of rage and pain that Logan wasn't honestly surprised when Angel twisted his arm around and used his own claws to slash open his own throat.

* * *

Giles felt so drained he was pretty sure he was going to pass out. He was trying to force out all the energy he had, shoring up Mordred's attack, but Broom was so gifted with black magic it was like smashing his head repeatedly against a brick wall, and he could feel each blow physically, his life force starting to drain away along with his will to fight. Even Mordred seemed shocked, but he wasn't back at full power; since what he called "the incident", the Powers That Be were giving him his power back in increments. He was nowhere near full strength, and probably never would be again.

He was aware that Logan and Angel were fighting, but he wasn't paying attention as the two wrestled and scrambled to get the upper hand on each other; Angel could finally overpower Logan, and right now it seemed like the perfect stalemate.

His vision was starting to blur, black spots pulsing in his peripheral vision, and when he heard Faith scream, "No!" it took him a moment to look around.

Faith had already raced across the room and kicked Angel in the face, sending him sprawling, but Logan remained flat out on the floor, his throat a crimson mess. His eyes were open, but staring up at nothing as his claws automatically retracted inside his hands, a sight that was never less than eerie.

Was he dead? Good lord, it looked like he was. Angel had cut his throat with his own claws?

"Logan?" Faith asked, and sounded desperate. She probably meant to kneel down, but Angel was up and moving to attack her.

A mistake; a big mistake. Even though her back was mostly turned towards him, she whirled into a kick and caught Angel full in the side of the face, the combination of her power and his momentum sending him flying across the room. He hit a desk so hard he totaled it. "You killed my boyfriend!" She shouted angrily, charging after him. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!"

Giles felt himself fall, and put out his hands, but to his surprise he found he'd simply been pulled down by Helga. She proceeded to pull Mordred down too, trapping them both in the circle once more. "What the hell are you doing?" Giles exclaimed, although he was so weak it was just a squeak.

Broom looked down at them, his black eyes almost glowing with triumph. "So, Stansin, you've decided to go with a dignified death?"

She glared up at him, and to the surprise of all of them, she was smiling. It was rich, triumphant, sharp as a razor blade and as cold as ice. "You're kidding, right, you two bit hack? This is my jungle, baby. And you're gonna die."

Confusion briefly distorted Broom's expression, and while Giles felt the same way, he realized, with a sudden clarity, that Helga was right.

Broom had trapped them. But she and Logan must have come up with a trap all their own.

0 


	13. Chapter 13

Broom's puzzled irritation turned to amusement. "Oh really? As bluff's go, this is quite lame."

Angel went flying past, as Faith continued to use him like a volleyball, and Broom ducked slightly, even though his protective field was still in place. "Please, Angel, don't play with your food," he said with a weary sigh. "I mean really."

That's when they all heard the weirdest thing - singing.

"_Those who feel me near, pull the blinds and change their minds. It's been so long."_

Broom looked surprised, and turned towards the noise, which seemed to be coming from … Logan?

His arms moved, and he sat up, singing, "And I've been putting out fire with gasoline." Except there were several things wrong with him. Having a good singing voice was one thing, although it was quite possible he'd always had one - had anyone ever heard him sing? But the Australian accent was new. As was the blue in his eyes. The pupils weren't blue; his eyes were completely, bleeding neon into the air, veins in his face pulsing with electric blue energy. They were snaking up from his neck, veins like indigo cords branching out from his gaping throat slashes, which had mostly healed over, except there was an outline of the wound glowing a radiant blue.

"Get him baby," Helga muttered, almost laughing.

So that was it. It wasn't that Logan and Helga had a trap, it was Logan that had the trap inside him.

The trap was Bob, and he'd been sprung.

Faith and Angel had stopped fighting, both shocked, but Angel looked positively gobsmacked as the mistake he had made had finally dawned on him. Logan was the avatar, and Bob wasn't back yet. "Oh shit," he gasped, ignoring the fact that Faith had him by the throat and had her fist pulled back. Faith seemed to be ignoring that too.

Broom simply looked stunned. He obviously didn't know about the Logan/Bob connection, and it was more than likely he didn't know anything about Bob at all. If he did, he would have teleported himself the hell out of here - he was an excellent sorcerer, perhaps one of the most powerful Giles had personally ever encountered. But now he was facing a god, and he didn't have a prayer. (No pun intended.)

Broom raised his hand, apparently throwing out a spell of force, but Bob/Logan simply waved his hand dismissively, and whatever the spell had been, it was harmlessly repelled. Logan started walking towards him, and Broom instinctively started backing up. "What the hell are you?" he asked, mostly intrigued but somewhat irritated.

But Bob didn't answer. He was stalking towards him, head down as he smoothly rolled his shoulders and moved in a strangely panther like way, purely Logan, but the blue energy of Bob was bleeding from his eyes and leaking from what little was left of his grave throat wound. There was no doubt who was in charge, but Bob must have adapted to using Logan's body in ways that couldn't be imagined. Bob stopped as a Qutrub crunched and clicked under his foot, and he looked around the bank, seeing them all for the first time.

"You're dead," he said almost casually, kicking the Qutrub closest to him across the room.

It wasn't just that one that curled up like massive potato bugs, carapaces cracking like thin ice; it was all of them, some falling off the ceiling and walls where they had climbed for a safer vantage point. There was no sense of a moving wave, or a sudden but modulated shift - they all simply curled up and died in the same exact moment. Bob looked back at Broom, who had paled considerably, his smugness giving way to confusion and fear. He must have known now he was so far out of his depth he was drowning. "You never should have messed with a chosen of the Powers, mate. There ain't a word for how big a fuck up _that_ is."

Giles wasn't sure if he was referring to Angel or Logan - or both.

Bob then shook his head, slowly but menacingly. "No, don't even consider it, Milos. It won't work."

His eyes widened, shocked that Bob had apparently read his mind as well as called him by his real name. "You - you -" he paused, looking around desperately for escape. But Angel made no move to escape from Faith or go protect his master now. He may have forgotten that Logan was Bob's avatar and Bob wasn't back in the flesh yet, but he knew there was nothing he could do, even in his superior vampire form, to hurt Bob.

Broom - Milos - exhaled as if he'd been punched, the hopelessness of the situation sinking in. "The fallen angel," he muttered under his breath. "He burns."

Although that struck Giles as a rather odd thing non-sequitur, Bob scoffed. "How could you have been so fucking daft? Dru was trying to _warn_ you. She has psychic flashes, remember? She may be as mad as a croc in a well, but she ain't dumb. Why do you think she's avoiding Los Angeles? Angel?" Bob's disdainful snicker said it all.

Milos sucked in a hard breath and raised his hand sharply, clearly about to throw a spell towards them, not Bob, but as fast as he was, he wasn't fast enough. Bob said in his odd voice (Logan's voice, but with his thick Australian accent and even thicker, slightly inhuman timbre), "Your powers have abandoned you, Milos. The magic has fled. It doesn't protect you anymore."

Milos completed the spell, but nothing happened, and his eyes were suddenly gray-blue, oddly Human. But the most startling change was in his face - he aged forty years in the blink of an eye. His hair drained of almost all color, shifting from dun brown to gunmetal gray, while his taut skin dried and became creased, wrinkles forming in the wells of his cheeks and lines pinching his eyes, while sudden arthritis twisted his fingers and gnarled his joints. "No!" he screamed in horror, watching the flesh of his hands become as thin as onion skin. The thing about black magic, about using it as powerfully and skillfully as Milos had, was it drained the user of energy so much faster than any other kind of magic. It was extremely powerful, but as such it needed extra energy, and the energy always came from the user. He must have found some mystical way to diffuse the impact, but now Bob had ripped it away from him, and the magic was taking its price.

His eyes seemed to glow with the panic of a trapped rat. He stared at Bob wild eyed, on the verge of madness as his body decayed all around him, and shouted, "You don't know who I am! I will be the king! You can't do this to me!"

Bob paused, but Giles saw the muscles in Logan's arms twitch, gathering for movement, but it wasn't physical. "I'm Bob," he told him, the nonchalance cut with a slight undertone of brutal coldness. "I can do whatever the fuck I want." Bob raised his hand, and Milos went flying out the doors with such force that both of them ripped off their hinges and went with him, the glass not shattering but vaporizing into a fine dust on impact as Milos went flailing out into the night. Bob then rather sarcastically waived him goodbye.

He then sighed, and turned towards them. "Yer all good, yeah?" It sounded like a question, but considering how good he suddenly felt, Giles realized it was just an unspecified "push".

Helga jumped up to her feet and grabbed him in a gesture that was half-hug and half-tackle. "Don't think this makes up for not being back yet," she scolded, then gave him a passionate kiss.

After several seconds, Faith cleared her throat. Helga didn't look at her, just waived in a way that meant _"just a second", _and after several more, finally broke away. Bob - who had reverted to Logan's regular eyes, more or less (they looked Human, but the pupils were a serious neon cobalt) - took a step back, and said, "If you punch me, you're actually punchin' him."

"I'll save it for you," she said, but it sounded like a threat.

"Angel?" Faith asked.

Bob glanced at her just as Angel broke free from Faith's grip and bolted for the hole in the wall where the doors used to be. "Freeze," Bob commanded, and Angel did, having only traveled about a meter towards the gap. "Goodnight." Angel seemed to sway before he collapsed, but he hit the floor rather inelegantly, sprawling over dead Qutrubs and the once more dead bodies of their Human hosts.

"You couldn't just shift him back?" Faith wondered suspiciously.

"I can, but I have other stuff to take care of first." He pointed towards the hole in the wall, and there were grunts and thuds somewhere out in the night, along with the sound of crackling radio static.

The Sisters had come to join him, no longer trapped since the sorcerer who had made the circle was no more, and said, "We -"

"- can -"

"- help."

"Thank you ladies, but I got this one covered," Bob told them, already heading outside.

"How'd you know that would happen?" Mordred asked Helga suspiciously.

She stared at him like he was an idiot. "He's Bob's avatar on Earth while he's in Powers That Be limbo. Bob wasn't gonna let him die."

"Oh shit, Logan knew that too," Faith said with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "I mean, from what happened when …" she gestured vaguely and trailed off. Giles wondered if they were ever going to hear the rest of that story. "Did he - does that mean he was tryin' to get Angel or Broom to kill him?"

Helga brushed her hands off on the thighs of her jeans, and gave Faith a strangely weary, maternal look. "Oh honey, this is Logan we're talking about. Of course he did."

* * *

Xander tried to struggle, tried to squirm out of the soldier's grip, but it was impossible. The Jonathan like soldier on the ground next to him had no luck either. He had time to wonder if this was going to hurt - and how could it not? - and also wonder if there'd be anyone who could save him once he was infested, when a couple things happened simultaneously.

The street lights suddenly came on en masse, temporarily blinding everyone, and the radios of the soldiers all came to life with loud bursts of static. It was briefly disorienting, and seemed to buy them a second, as Xander realized that whatever spell had been suppressing the electricity (in anticipation of Naomi?) had been broken. Several seconds later, there was a strange noise, loud and dull, a solid thud, and then there was a much louder crash as something came down hard on the hood of Wolfram and Hart's assault vehicle, breaking the windshield with an explosive noise of denting metal and breaking glass. "Holy shit!" someone exclaimed.

The Qutrubs advancing towards them hesitated, and even the possessed soldiers looked towards the bank nervously. What the hell was going on in there?

He heard a vaguely familiar voice say, "You're gone," and suddenly the Qutrubs curled up and died like he'd hoped they would. But the possessed soldier seemed to die too and fell right on top of him, a heavy dead weight. He made a noise of disgust and kicked him off, scrambling back to his feet in case the Qutrubs weren't really all dead.

But it seems they were, and the soldiers looked as puzzled about it as he felt. Someone walked out of the darkness, and the soldiers dropped their knives and swung up their guns - this thing was a biped - but he casually said, "Your guns are snakes."

Some men yelped in shock while others actually did scream in terror as … their guns remained guns, but they dropped them and scrambled up on top of parked cars or back into the truck like they really did think they were reptiles, and that included the Jonathan like one, who shrieked and ran like a kindergartener. Xander clicked his tongue and shook his head. "What the hell's your problem?"

"They saw their guns become snakes," the guy said, and now Xander could see him. It was Logan … but it wasn't. His eyes were doing the blue glowy thing that Bob's eyes were doing the first time he'd met him. Also, Logan had never had an accent before, save for an extremely vague Canadian one.

"I didn't see that."

"You weren't holding a gun."

Oh, okay. That made sense … kinda. "So, uh, are you Bob? What happened to Logan?"

"He's taking a time out. He thought it was best I handle this."

"Ah. Umm, what?"

"Evil sorcerer, blah blah blah."

"Oh man, that again? Why don't those guys get a hobby or something? I mean, beyond ending the world or whatever the fuck their deal is. We all got picked on in high school; they need to take some Prozac and move on."

Logan/Bob seemed to be looking around, and finally looked back at him. "You came alone?"

"Yeah. Stakeouts usually aren't done in groups."

He smirked and shook his head. "Are you really brave or intensely stupid?"

Xander shrugged. "You don't wanna know how many times I've been asked that question. I've decided that stupid is really the only honest answer."

"Hey, it could be worse."

"Oh yeah? Like what? I'd live in an overpriced loft with a semi-feral cat and a sinkful of dirty dishes? Oh, wait , I do." He rolled his eyes at himself and sighed, going back to retrieve his nail gun.

He didn't hear him, he simply grabbed the nail gun and straightened up, and suddenly Logan/Bob was there, looking at him with those eerie glowing eyes. He couldn't help but step back, but he managed to swallow the startled shriek. "Uh, can I help you?"

"No, but I think I can help you." He reached out and touched the side of his face, and Xander tried to jump back, but found himself oddly rooted to the spot. He tried to speak, but his vocal cords were just a frozen as everything else. The side of his face felt uncomfortably warm, and then he withdrew his hand, leaving him feeling suddenly off balance. "Try not to lose it this time, okay?" Bob/Logan said, turning and walking back towards the bank.

"What? What the fuck did you do to me?" he asked, wondering why he was dizzy and the world looked funny. It seemed to be the same, but something wasn't right. It was -

Oh shit no.

He touched his face tentatively, in case he was hallucinating or only believing something that Bob wanted him to believe, but he could feel it, the movement beneath the eyelid, the warmth along with the solidity. And when he half closed the lid, the world winked out on one side. No, it wasn't possible … was it? It must have been; he was a god, right? They could do these sorts of things.

The world felt funny beneath his feet, but he managed to reach his car, where he crumpled, crouching down to hide the fact that he had just burst into tears. He wasn't even sure why he was crying, but he still couldn't stop.

His eye was back. Bob had given him back his missing eye.

17

They went back to the office, because that seemed to be for the best, although Bob barely asked them before teleporting them all en masse.

As soon as they were back, Angel laying on the carpet (still out cold), Mordred exclaimed, "What the bloody fuck was _that _all about?"

Bob was still inhabiting Logan, but now that he wasn't in fight mode, it was obvious it was Bob in Logan's skin. He walked differently for one - even when he wasn't in stalking mode, Logan had the loose but ready gait of a boxer - and his expression was oddly cheerful, almost always on the verge of a smile, a state also reflected in his voice. It was jarring, but Giles wasn't sure if it was jarring because it was clearly Bob, or because it suddenly became obvious that Logan almost never smiled and rarely broke out of his personal cloud of gloom. Bob sat on the edge of Brendan's desk and said, with mock good cheer, "Oh boy, the exposition part! I love these."

Sarcasm aside, he did get quickly get to the point. Miles Broom was actually a man named Milos Eldritch, a sorcerer who was about a hundred and fifty years old, and had cheated both magic and time as long as he possibly could. He happened upon a plan that he thought would allow him to cheat death and become the most powerful black magician ever to exist: become a vampire. But an ordinary bloodsucker wasn't for him, so he found a way that would allow him to bring back the Master's bloodline, and the special something that allowed him to become the "ultimate" vampire. The problem was, he could only do it though Angel, and the intent was Angel would turn him, but in doing so, Milos would become the new Master. "That doesn't make sense," Mordred pointed out. "As plans go, that really sucks. 'Cause wouldn't Angel be the new Master?"

"Oh well, he was planning on killing Angel as soon as he was done with him. Black magician and all - he was gonna put a fatal whammy on his ass. Then he'd be the only hot shot with the uber-powers."

"So what exactly did he do to Angel?" Faith asked, nervously running a hand through her hair. If he was reading her correctly, Bob being in Logan was unsettling to her. He could sympathize.

"Call it a very specific genetic variation amongst vampires. The Order of Aurelius was special, they were fiercer and meaner than your typical vamps, and it was literally in the blood; training had little to do with it. But the variation became diluted the more vamps were made, the more the blood was mixed, and it eventually died off. It exists in Angel, but was more or less dormant, until Milos found the right spell to not just activate it but enhance it, and it overwhelmed Angel easily. There are just some biological imperatives you can't ignore."

"But you can change him back, right?" Faith asked.

Bob looked down at Angel with a curious expression, one that was hard to read. But Giles wasn't sure he trusted it. "With the magician behind it dead, it should be very easy." He suddenly cocked his head to the side, as if listening to something in another room.

"Is something wrong?" Giles wondered.

"He's -"

"- talking -"

"- to Logan," the Sisters volunteered.

Giles would have asked how they knew that, but he was almost afraid to know.

Faith shifted uncomfortably. "He's here? I mean … well shit, what do I mean?"

"He's conscious," Bob said. "He just gave me control, that's all."

Faith stared at him. Well, at them. Damn this was confusing. "So it was on purpose?"

Bob shrugged with his hands, letting them fall back to his legs. "He's sorry, but he felt he had no other choice but to tag me in."

Mordred made a noise that was almost a scoff. He pulled a lighter and a Galois out of his pocket, and Giles leaned over and ripped it out from his fingers before he had a chance to light it. He'd already told him there was no smoking in this office. That and he hated the smell of these damn things - he might as well just toke on dirty socks. Mordred flashed him a brief, evil scowl, but then turned his attention back to Bob. "Yes, but getting your throat slashed seemed a bit over-dramatic."

Bob gave him a lopsided grin that was truly weird to see on Logan's face. "D'ya really want to know his reply to that?"

The office door swung open, and a rather harried looking Bren and Naomi stared at them, glancing at them all in turn. "What the hell's been going on?" Bren asked, almost shouting in his frustration.

At least Bob would get more of a chance to work out his expositional skills.

* * *

There were no words for how weird this was.

It wasn't like he was a passenger in his own head, although he was. Bob had tarted things up a bit, with his usual sense of humor, meaning of course he was lucky he wasn't there. Logan had regained consciousness in the seat of an old fashioned movie theater, the upholstery a burgundy colored velvet as soft as fur. He was pretty sure that no theater like this had ever existed in life, or if it had, it must have been some time ago. He'd never seen a theater with seats this big or plush, aisles so wide, and the screen was almost drive in movie high and wide, although there was a cathedral ceiling far above with stained glass inserts glowing with a life of their own. He assumed the stained glass would have some kind of joke in them, Bob in full asshole mode, but as far as he could see, the stained glass only depicted still lifes: bowls of fruit, a pitcher and a basin. If there was a joke there, Logan wasn't sure he got it.

On the screen was what Bob was currently seeing through his eyes. He came around while they were still at the bank, but he'd missed Broom's death, which he was deeply sad about, and he was too logy to do much but watch as Bob killed the rest of the Qutrubs by suggestion alone, and gave Xander back his eye. The poor guy looked so stunned he thought he might faint, but then again, how did you handle a lost appendage suddenly showing up again? Logan felt that of all people he should know, but it wasn't something he wanted to think about.

Faith wasn't handling this bit well, was she? He knew from before that the idea that he was temporarily sharing his body with an energy being freaked her out a little. Now that was back, full force, and it probably hadn't helped that he let Angel seemingly kill him to get Bob's attention. The whole thing about getting Bob's attention was his fault anyways - if he had accepted his power, he would have been able to use it. Or at least Bob would be that much closer to the surface, he'd be hanging around at least enough that Logan could have "_Hey, kick his ass" _without much bother. But no, he was a coward and he couldn't deal with it, so he was out of options.

"You are not a coward," Bob said, suddenly sitting in the seat beside him, munching popcorn from a big red and white paper bag. "Let's not start that nonsense again." He held the bag out towards him. "Popcorn?"

Logan frowned at him, and wanted to ask how he could be here and talking to the others at the same time, but Bob - of course - anticipated the question. "Multi-tasking, mate. I'm no more really here than you are."

"You enjoy being freaky, don't you?"

"No more than you."

He reached over and grabbed a handful of popcorn as Bob studied Angel. "Give him the choice," Logan told him.

Bob looked over at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Take out the overwhelming bits, the stuff that gave him a dickhead personality, but leave the rest, and ask him if he wants to keep it once he's in his right mind again. If it's really his by right, he should have the ability to keep it if he wants."

"Hmm. But, y'know, he really doesn't need it. He's older than most vampires, and Angelus was a bad motherfucker. Most of the vamps out there don't stand a chance against him, even in a group."

"It's not vampires I'm thinking of."

"Oh, I see. Other demon types."

"And Wolfram and Hart. Just think how surprised they'll be when Angel turns out to be better than they thought."

"You just want to fuck with their heads."

"You don't?"

Bob conceded that with a shrug. "Okay, yeah. Love to do that. You did a good job with that by the way. It's funny how they still threaten you with guns when they gotta know that's a stop-gap solution at best."

"Explosive rounds will keep me down for a while, especially a lot of 'em."

"Not with me around."

Brendan and Naomi came in, joining the fun, and that reminded Logan of something. (And this popcorn was oddly good, but then again, it was Bob's creation, so it would be.) "Bren's got something' goin' on with him."

"What?"

"I dunno. I was gonna loosen his tongue with beer, but I bet you could save me the bother."

"What am I, your dancing monkey?" he protested, and suddenly he had a big drink cup in his hand, one with a picture of Bob's smiling face on the side, with the legend "Dance Monkey" on it in big yellow letters. Good lord, he was so trippy sometimes, who needed LSD? After taking a sip of his drink (did it smell like beer? Yes, it did), he said, "He's dating a vampire."

"What the fuck..? I thought he hated vampires!"

"He does, but this one's cute - he's Kier, the guy he met at Syn - and he got the sense that he was working for someone, trying to infiltrate the group to get an inside shot at Angel. So he was working on the theory of keeping your enemies closer."

He groaned in disappointment. "No wonder he reacted so funny when I told him it was stupid to sleep with the enemy."

"Yeah, he's beginning to think he fucked up royal."

Logan sighed, grabbing Bob's beer and having a sip himself. Yes, it was beer, a dark, bitter kind that had a major kick to it. "I guess I'll go talk to Kier, see what he's actually up to."

"Oh, let's do it together," Bob said, snatching his cup of beer back. While the cup still had his picture on it, the legend beneath his smiling face now read _'For all your eavesdropping needs'_. "I can get him to spill his guts without all the mishegosh and drama. Then we can decide what we're gonna do with him. Speaking of which - the Matador."

He looked at him sharply, totally ignoring the screen. "No. Don't even -"

"Mate, it's a two way street. You share my memories, and I share yours. I already know what this is about. We all fuck up - ask Angel about that. I forgive you, if that means anything."

He punched him square in the face. Since this was a mindscape it wouldn't hurt him, and he probably let him do it, which just made him resent him more. Bob just looked at him, totally uninjured and unfazed. (But on the cup, his picture now sported a black eye. What the fuck was it? "The Drink Cup of Dorian Grey"?) "Feel better?" Bob wondered.

"No. Can I do it twenty more times?"

Bob wagged a finger at him. "Now now, we have stuff to do. The fun can come later."

"I don't need your fucking forgiveness. It doesn't change a fucking thing."

"No. But I'm trying to encourage you to forgive yourself."

He slumped back into his seat, staring up at the screen and scowling at it in the imperfect dark. It was a probably a good thing that Bob was technically - save for a couple of instances - beyond killing, because he was really tempted to just go all out on his ass, turn him into ground chuck and a collection of bloody stumps. "It ain't gonna happen. I got too much blood on my hands, I've done too much …" he petered off, figuring that if Bob did have his memories, he already knew.

"You realize you're talking to a Power, right? You're gonna have to work for a few centuries to get even close to the blood we got on our hands. That's the thing about being a god: no one can out kill you."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No; it's just a statement of fact. I just think it's interesting how you've made yourself the self-appointed magnet of bad karma for the people around you."

He didn't know what he meant at first, but then he did. He meant how he decided if there was any killing that needed to be done by the X-Men or by kids like Bren, he'd do it before anyone else had to. "Killing changes you - okay, maybe not gods, but us regular people. You think it doesn't or it won't, but it does. And I'm already so warped, one more life on my conscience isn't gonna make a damn bit of difference."

Bob made a strange noise - a combination between a hum and a grunt - and put his feet up on the back of the chair in front of him. "Interesting. That's what I like so much about you, Logan - you're such an unpredictable guy. You think you're irredeemable, and yet you keep striving to do the right thing anyways. Shouldn't you be, by logic, a bad guy?"

He shrugged, and shot back, "Shouldn't you?"

Bob looked at him with a brilliant, big smile, showing off his sparkling white teeth. "Who said I wasn't?"

The worst part was, he wasn't a hundred percent sure he was joking.


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn't too hard to find the place - it was a fairly posh two story home, with a bungalow style roof and a heated backyard pool, as well as what seemed to be round the clock security service. Bob wasn't the least bit surprised, though, as one of the terrible truisms of life was you would never go broke trafficking in Human misery. It was a market with an endless need, and there was no shortage of supplies.

Who knew being with a god could be so depressing?

Logan, almost against his better judgment, decided to let Bob handle it, mainly because he remembered what he did to the guy behind Eden Biotechnics. There was revenge and then there was justice, and the two weren't always the same thing.

Bob just walked right through the front gates, disabling the security system with a thought. The guards came for them, but Bob told them both they _really _had to pee now, and they ran off to do just that before they pissed themselves. Huge, nasty pit bulls ran for them, but Bob told them to be nice, and suddenly they were, wagging their tails with such naive enthusiasm it looked like their hind ends were about to go airborne. The dogs kindly led them to the front of the house, and Bob just walked in the door, the locks that were on it suddenly not functional.

That was one thing for it, though: breaking and entering with Bob was terribly easy.

The Matador was in what must have been his living room, or maybe his theater room, if such a thing existed: an action movie featuring Bruce Willis and a ton of explosions was playing on the plasma screen t.v. bolted against the far wall, the explosions magnified by the surround sound speakers in each corner of the room. And yet the Matador wasn't paying attention to it; he was shouting into the phone, furious about what he saw as an attack by some of his south of the border rivals. Logan wished he was surprised that the Matador was Hispanic himself, but he wasn't - greed and exploitation knew no race.

As soon as he saw the stranger in his house, he went wide eyed and grabbed for the gun he wore, but Bob simply said, "Hang up," and he obeyed, as mindlessly and instantly as the dogs.

Logan wanted to gut him; he wanted to chop him into little pieces and let his attack dogs have the rest, but Bob was working the justice angle. He muted the television, and after a moment, turned to the Matador, who was frozen where he stood, and said, "I think the first one was the best, you know, if only for Alan Rickman chewing the scenery like his career depended on it. Now, Matty - I guess I should call you Jorge, huh? - here's what you're gonna do. From this moment on you're turning over a new leaf. You know now what you're doing is wrong and you feel horrible about it, so horrible you can never forgive yourself. You're going to shut down all your sweatshops and free the workers; you're going to give all your money and possessions away; and then you're going to go to the FBI branch office in L.A. and give yourself up. But it's not only you you're giving up - you're going to give up everyone you know in this business, even peripherally. You're going to give up the measliest thug in your employ to the major businesses that took advantage of your cheap slave labor. You are going to turn states evidence on every goddamn person you've ever met in this biz. Am I clear?"

The Matador nodded dumbly, a puppet on a string. There were now tears welling in his eyes, but Logan wasn't sure why.

"You're going to be proud of being a snitch, because what you've done with your life is horrendous. You want to atone, and how you feel better about yourself is by getting as many people to join you in prison as possible. Now go get your financial records - the real ones - and get to work."

The Matador had a thousand yard stare, and he turned and stiffly walked out of the room, heading upstairs by the sound of it. It also sounded like he burst into tears on the way.

"The way you fuck with people," Logan said, with a mix of admiration and outright fear.

"I know. It's a shame, inn't?" Bob replied breezily, grabbing an apple from a bowl of fruit on the sideboard as they walked out of the house.

"They're gonna kill him."

Bob shrugged. "Eventually, yeah, but before that he's going to explode a major part of the alien exploitation ring, and incriminate the corporations who feed off it. But you know what the best part of it will be?"

Logan sensed this was a trick question, so he simply asked, "What?"

"You ain't the one doing the killin'," he replied, biting into the apple on their way down the lit cobblestone walk.

Yeah, he knew it was a trick question.

18

It was almost a relief to wake up and not sense Bob in him. It wasn't that he wasn't grateful Bob saved their hash, but he liked being in control of himself once more.

It was bizarre to wake up in Bob's bed though, the one in the warehouse apartment he usually shared with Hel. Of course he knew why he was here - he couldn't see going back to Faith's with Bob in control of him. She was just too freaked out by it, and he didn't blame her. Hel wasn't here, which made him curious, but he figured that maybe Bob had subtly pushed her not to come back here tonight, because he knew what an awkward situation that might make.

Unlike Faith, Helga wasn't freaked out by their arrangement, and she was pretty much happy to fuck either of them. Probably both at the same time; Stansins were all about the group sex thing.

He took a long shower, happy to wash the blood from last night off of him, and dug through Bob's clothes until he could find something he could wear. (He wasn't going to wear crocodile print leather pants; that was never gonna happen.) He found a pair of jeans that weren't outlandish in any way, but the shirts were more difficult. Oh, he had a ton of t-shirts, but they all had the weird sayings on them that made them so defiantly Bob's. (He was never wearing a t-shirt that said "Sausage Victim"; that too was never gonna happen.) Eventually he settled on a t-shirt that was a reproduction of a beer label, although it was for a beer he'd never heard of : Cockshutt's Old Peculiar. Clearly a British beer, but was it even real? It was possible Bob made it up 'cause he liked the name. (And he would too.)

It was while he was digging through the fridge, making breakfast, that he realized that Bob was in fact totally gone. He sensed none of the energy in the back of his mind, none of that terrible blue light that at once burned and froze, the stuff that made telepathic brains melt on contact. Did that mean he was back in a physical form? Hurray if so. Bob had done him a lot of favors, he couldn't deny that, but it was good to be alone in his body once more.

He called Faith, who wasn't surprised he didn't come back last night - apparently Bob had told her they might be gone all night "cleaning up". "Have you seen the news yet?" she asked.

He hadn't, but she caught him up. The Matador had made the front page of the paper, and the morning news had the Feds involved in an orgy of arrests, while a couple of big corporations had their lawyers (Faith thought she recognized one or two from Wolfram and Hart) and P.R. people making statements in advance of arrest warrants against their CEO's. It was just panic and chaos in the white collar world as well as the smuggling underworld, and Faith found it hard to stop laughing. She'd been trying to call Xander, see if he was aware of what was going on, but he wasn't answering his phone.

She didn't know, did she? Xander got his eye back, and he was probably still working through the shock of it. But, on the bright side, when he did hear this, it would probably make him happy. The Matador wasn't dead (yet), but he was finished, so maybe Berto's death wasn't in vain.

He was just about done fussing with his omelet (it was Bob's fridge - he had to take advantage of all the alternately weird and fancy food he had in there) when there was a knock at the door. He would have thought it was Bob, except Bob wouldn't knock - this was his place, after all. Up close to the door, he realized the smell beyond the door was familiar, but surprising.

He opened the door, saying, "Kid, what're you doing here?"

Brendan stared at him bleary eyed, both his lack of sharp focus and the dark half moons under his eyes attesting to the fact that he hadn't gotten any sleep yet, or at least not near enough. "Kier came over and told me everything you told him to tell me. Or Bob did. Can I come in?"

He opened the door wide and walked back to Bob's kitchen, since he didn't want his breakfast to burn. He and Bob had paid a visit to pretty boy Kier (and he was very pretty - Logan and Bob had to give him that) before going to the Matador's place. Bob made Kier tell him the total truth of his involvement with Bren, and both of them got something they didn't expect. Bob instructed him to admit the truth to Bren as soon as he saw him.

Bren came in and shut the door, taking a seat at Bob's small kitchen table. "Wow, smells good. Don't suppose I can scam some, huh?"

"No," he said, grumpy that he now had to put his omelet on a plate because the kid was here. He slid it out of the pan onto a big ceramic plate decorated inexplicably with the painting of a big rooster (Bob and his cock jokes), and grabbed a fork from the drawer by the sink. He grabbed a second and tossed it over his shoulder at the kid, not bothering to see if he caught it (he must have, as he didn't hear it hit the table or the floor).

He sat down in the opposite chair, across from Bren, and set the plate down in front of himself so Bren would have to reach to pick at it. The kitchen was small enough that he was able to reach the fridge from his chair, pulling out a beer, a bottle of brown ale with a name that suggested a microbrewery.

Bren watched him with a raised eyebrow. "I gotta ask - why do you drink beer all the time? You can't feel the alcohol, right? So what's the point. Beer doesn't taste that good."

"Depends on the beer," he pointed out, twisting the cap off and taking a swig. Yeah, this beer tasted pretty good, in spite of its name (Devil's Head Wicked Ale - again, surely Bob being funny). But as he set it down, he admitted, "It overwhelms my taste buds, so I don't hafta taste the air."

"What?"

He picked up his fork and dug into his omelet, glad the feta hadn't melted too much. "Ya think I just smell stuff and that's it? Your taste is related to your sense of smell. I drink beer so I don't hafta keep tastin' stuff, just like I smoke cigars to block out smells." He cut into the mishmash of eggs and vegetables, and didn't bother to mention that there was also a certain comfort factor to it all, that sometimes a cigar just felt like a good thing to have, giving him something to do with himself, while he never gave up hope that one day he'd find a beer he could feel, one that would just numb all the pain and make it go away for a little while. He knew it would never happen, but because he was apparently a stubborn bastard, he never stopped trying.

"Oh, wow. I never thought of it that way," Bren admitted, sounding a little embarrassed. "Scott just said you were a wannabe alcoholic."

That made him snort - it sounded just like the Boy Scout. The funny thing was, it was surprisingly accurate (not that he'd ever admit it). Also, he made a damn good omelet, if he didn't say so himself, although the ingredients made it a hard thing to fuck up. Bob had the best stuff - even the feta was a real good, smooth kind that tasted rich, not vaguely of vomit (well, some feta did taste that way to him). "So what's botherin' you about Kier?"

He actually knew, he just had some questions about other things. Kier was a schemer, but not in the way that Bren had assumed. His motives weren't sinister - they were selfish. Bren had reached over and cut off a hunk of the eggs with his fork, but he stared at Logan in disbelief. "What's bothering me? You're seriously asking that? My boyfriend's a starfucker; what isn't bothersome about that?"

"That ain't all of it, kiddo." And it wasn't, although that was the most succinct explanation. Kier was a restless, bored vampire who wanted to set himself apart from the pack, and was frustrated by the fact that he could no longer pursue his acting career (the vamp snuff films just didn't require acting of any sort). So what he decided to do was make a major name for himself amongst his fellow vampires, and he decided the way to do that was to get into Angel's inner circle. He didn't want to kill him or spy on him, as Bren had assumed - he wanted to catch a little of his glory. _He_ wanted to become just as notorious as Angel was among his fellow vamps; he wanted to become "famous". Vampires in charge of massacres or big schemes were a dime a dozen, but vamps who made their livelihood killing other vamps … now that was a specialty field.

Bren was a way into Angel's circle. But Kier admitted he liked Bren, that he was smarter and more interesting than any vampire he'd been with, and he was cute (he also added he was a "_pretty good fuck", _but Logan wasn't about to tell the kid that, although it'd probably be an ego boost). He still wanted to get "on the team" though, make a name for himself.

"It's the most important part, though. I'm a means to an end."

"He likes you. No one can lie to Bob, certainly not a run-of-the-mill bloodsucker."

Bren shrugged uncomfortably, chewing his forkful of eggs. He grimaced in a speculative way, and said, "Hey, this is pretty good. I didn't know you could cook."

"I gotta take care of myself somehow, don't I? Look, if Kier gives you any kind of … amusement, you might as well keep 'im. Hell, tell Angel; he just might bring him aboard. It might be nice to have a vampire agent that isn't as unstable as the Sisters. And the kid ain't a bad fighter, vain wannabe actor or not."

Bren stole another bite, but looked at him warily. "But he's a fame hungry asshole. He's using me to get to Angel."

"Yeah, and you can use him back. I don't think Kier would expect anything less, actually; he knows the game."

"You'd trust him?"

"Not totally. But you can trust him as long as his selfish motives co-exist happily with your own. When they start to diverge, though, when his own fame will be increased by betrayal …" he didn't finish the sentence, because he felt he didn't have to.

The kid got it, but he frowned a little, not liking it. "Cut the loss. Doesn't that seem a little … I dunno … cold blooded?"

Logan shrugged a shoulder, basically conceding the point. "It's Hollywood. Just hope it never comes to that."

He let the kid chew on that as well as his segment of omelet for a moment, letting the silence stretch out a bit, filled only with the ticking of a clock hanging on the wall beside the fridge. (It was one of those "bird clocks" that had a different one sing on the hour, but Logan had never seen an Australian version of the clock before. Did Bob just make that up, or did they actually _make _those somewhere?) Figuring that enough time had passed, Logan finally asked, "So why didn't you tell anyone your mother died?"

Bren sat up, and shoved back a little, the chair scraping against the linoleum. "What?"

"Bob saw it in your mind. He wanted to talk to you about it, but I told him I'd rather."

He groaned and sat forward, resting his head in his hands. "Goddamn it. What's there to talk about if you already know -"

"Why do you blame yourself, kid? She committed suicide on the other side of the country."

"Yeah, thanks for that fucking news flash," he snapped, his shoulders hunching as if he was preparing to leap across the table. But he remembered who he was talking to, and didn't. "I don't wanna talk about this right now. I can't handle it."

"Bullshit. You think yer a monster 'cause you don't feel that bad about your Mom topping herself, but I've actually got a fucking news flash for you: why _should_ you mourn her?

That made Bren look up at him in slightly appalled confusion. "What?"

This was why Logan felt he was best suited to this conversation over Bob. Not only did he know the kid better, but he was used to him sounding ruthless. "A common biology doesn't mean as much as people seem to think it should. Every time I hear these "family values" politicians spoutin' off, I wanna smash their heads in. I know what family can do to each other, I know of the horrible things parents can do their children, and even visa versa - although that's a bit rarer. But a blood tie means shit, even though some people think it should mean everything. Sometimes people just can't connect. It might be no one's fault, but it happens a lot. And a long time ago your mother had a choice. I ain't sayin' it was easy, or that I don't sympathize, but she had to choose the most important thing in her life, you or the drugs, and we both know it wasn't you. You probably got your mourning done a long time ago, so why do you need to do it again?"

The kid sniffed, and wiped away nascent tears in his eyes, looking down at the table. "I don't know if that's supposed to make me feel better or worse."

"Feel however you wanna feel, and don't let anyone tell you how you should."

He grunted in forced humor, and looked at him, appearing far too weary for his age. "So all you old guys are fonts of wisdom, huh?"

"Font my ass," he snapped. "Call me old again, and I'll stab you with my fork."

The kid got a slightly giddy grin on his face, and Logan knew he was in for something, but that was okay - if the kid was sharp enough to snark, he was gonna be okay. "Ooh, that sounds like a double entendre to me."

The kid shoved his chair back quickly as Logan feigned a strike with his fork, and shook his head, scowling in disapproval. But it was kind of hard not to laugh. With a name like fork, the double entendres were just built in.

14 Year Ago - Canada

He went back to Alberta, although why he couldn't say. But he figured with the police looking for someone who looked liked him in B.C., whoever was looking for him in Alberta would wander over there as well. He eventually meandered over to Manitoba, a place that made Alberta generally look "exciting", and since suicide didn't look like a viable option, he had no idea what he was going to do with himself. Eventually he got hungry, and he had been without beer long enough to want to tear his hair out in big clumps.

He wandered into a seedy looking bar in Moosejaw, only to find the owner - a heavy set woman with an eagle tattoo on her neck - was looking for a bartender. A tough one, which was actually the main qualification (as for knowledge of drinks, that was not a prerequisite; no one ordered fancy drinks around here, and most of the clientele were lucky to have enough teeth to talk without whistling), so he got the job. He supposed he took it as punishment - he was going to stay in one place as long as he could, and just deal with it. If they caught up to him, they caught up to him.

But no one did, This was the kind of bar where no one told tales out of school anyhow, even if a cop came in here threatening to gun everyone down if they didn't admit all the crimes they'd witnessed. No one squealed, because everyone was guilty.

He lasted about a month and a half - two months, give or take a weekend or two - before he couldn't stand staying in Moosejaw anymore. The bar gig was no trouble at all; it was insanely easy. At first they tested him because he didn't seem that tough, but as soon as they found out how tough he actually was - and he brooked no nonsense at all - the customers treated him with something very close to reverence, They didn't want to get on his bad side; he never had to repeat himself. (And he'd never broken out the claws either - he knew as soon as he did that, it was over.) It should have been good, it should have been the gateway that he needed, the passage to something like a "normal" life, but he couldn't do it. Something in him wasn't ready, but also, something in him told him he wasn't good enough, and he didn't deserve to feel "safe"; he had done too much to ever deserve anything like a normal life.

So one morning he told the owner, Oona, that he had to go back to the Yukon due to a death in his family. She made appropriate sympathetic noises, although she was also clearly pissed off that she'd have to replace him. He drove off, not sure what the fuck he was doing or where he was going. As it was, a sudden flood stuck him in a rural, mountainous part of Alberta for a week longer than he intended, and he realized he couldn't stand being alone with himself. What did you do about that?

He couldn't get drunk, not easily, and he already knew that drugs were for other people, people who didn't have immune systems so freakishly attenuated that they rejected even a complex narcotic. Women were nice, but they had a tendency to ask too many questions, and he was afraid again that he might develop attachments that would make him want to stay in one place, and that wasn't something he was going to allow to happen. He knew he was dangerous, and he couldn't be trusted near anyone. He was built to hurt things, and it was all he was good for - he'd be a fool to forget it.

He ended up in the Yukon eventually, drinking in a bar in a sprawling truck stop complex, the kind that was actually a small city compacted to the size of an airplane hangar. In one sense it was dangerous, because people were constantly coming and going, but on the other hand it was safe, because it was the rare man who gained enough attention to be remembered amongst the crowd. He was sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and attempting to watch the news over the general din, but he was down the way from a big guy as bald as a pool cue, his scalp red from sunburn, bragging to his boneheaded friends that he could beat any ass in the joint, and the only people who'd get in the cage with him anymore were newbies, outsiders who'd never heard of him before. Cage?

That must have been the thing around the back. Because he was tired of hearing the guy, he wandered off and found it. It was barely a proper "cage", just an enclosure mainly made of chicken wire, with a few scattered benches for "spectators". He could smell lingering traces of blood, body odor, sweat and pain. Fun. Bunch of stupid redneck motherfuckers beating the shit out of each other for the amusement of other stupid redneck motherfuckers. It used to be an occasional "entertainment" out in the territories, and now it was becoming a full time, lucrative business.

By the time he got back, baldy was holding court with his "amusing" anecdotes full of racial slurs, and Logan gulped down his beer and was on the verge of storming out in disgust when he realized something: he belonged here. Didn't he? He was a lowlife scumbag too. He thought he'd served some kind of penance in Moosejaw? It wasn't even close, and it was nowhere near enough. He wasn't sure it would ever be enough. In fact, he was probably worse than everyone here. Why did he think he was better? He was the lowest of the low.

It was fight time, and the bald redneck went back with his adoring crowd of fellow rednecks. A guy with a cowboy hat started trolling the crowd, looking for someone who would fight the champion, and Logan swallowed what little pride he had - how did he have any at all? - and said, "I'll kick his ass,"

Penance or not, it didn't mean he couldn't have a _little_ fun.

* * *

He was tempted to leave Bob's place a mess, but he had helped him, so the least he could do was pile the dishes in the sink. He wasn't about to wash 'em, mind you - he was a fucking god. He could wish the plates clean, or however his powers actually worked.

The kid left in a slightly better mood, although it was clear he didn't know what he was going to do about Kier. Logan didn't blame him - what did you do in a situation like that? A relationship built on lies was never going to work, but who said Brendan even needed a relationship? He could just have a little fun, and then kick the starfucker to the curb. Kier was an actor, so it shouldn't surprise him.

The view out Bob's kitchen window - in this place - was especially bleak. It was a lovely view of the rest of the industrial district, building after building in corrugated metal and reinforced concrete, with roofs of tar paper and pebbles and others with even less sophistication. He knew he should be hearing the constant loud clatter of warehouses being loaded and unloaded, but Bob's mystic tweaking had insulated this place, kept the sound out. It was nice but eerie somehow, quiet as the grave, and he watched water trail down the outside of the window like tears as it started to rain.

He had a sense of déjà vu. Faint at first, but as he stared at the water trails snaking their way down the pane, the sense became much stronger. Why would it? It was such a vague thing, he'd probably seen it a million times before, in a million variations -

_- Logan watched the water making runnels down the window, streaks in the dust of the outside glass, as he rinsed out his cup and set it on the sideboard. The knock on the door was almost drowned out by the drumming of the rain on the roof, but he'd been expecting it, so he heard it. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel as he crossed the room of his small apartment to the front door. He checked the peephole and made sure the woman was alone before he opened the door._

_He opened it a crack and peered out. The woman was petite but sturdy, in a tasteful navy blue suit with a modest but reasonably clingy skirt, her dishwater blonde hair done up in a bun so tight it looked like it probably hurt. Her pale brown eyes flashed with annoyance, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. "I presume you have my distributor cap?"_

_He tossed his dishtowel over his shoulder and went to his side table, grabbing up the distributor cap, wrapped up in a rag so it didn't leave oil on the wood. The woman had pushed her way in uninvited, but he expected that. "I told you people, I'm out. I served my country, I'm done, leave me alone."_

_He could smell a government agent a mile away, and he thought he'd gotten away from them with a name and location change, but obviously not. As he gave her the distributor cap, he told her, "Next time you decide to tail me, I'll rip out your radiator. Go away."_

_She continued to eye him coldly, her face pinched naturally in such a way that made it look like she was constantly smelling something bad. "You really think I wanted this job? Do you really think I wanted to find out that one of our greatest war heroes was living in a ramshackle apartment over a run down bookshop in one of the worst sections of Toronto? This is sad -"_

"_I didn't ask for your opinion," he snapped. "Now walk, sister. I've got a date tonight." A lie, but he wasn't going to tell some G-girl the truth._

_But she didn't take the hint. She stared hard at him as she put a hand on her hip. "Your country needs you again. Are you really going to turn them away?"_

"_Yes," he replied emphatically, going into the bathroom to wash his hands. If he knew her type, she wouldn't follow._

_She didn't , but she shouted at him from the living room. "I don't believe that. What if I said it involves something called The Organization?"_

_That bland name drove a dagger of ice through his heart. He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror, finding his face looking stark, his eyes almost hollow. There was a name he never wanted to hear again. _

"_We believe they've been up to something … not in the best interest of Canada, or anyone else for that matter. But we need some solid evidence."_

_He knew now what she was here asking him. He leaned against the bathroom doorway and glared at her. "I'm done with them. No."_

_Her look softened, but it seemed calculated. "We need an inside man we can trust. That's a small list, Major . In fact, it's just you. There's no one else we can ask."_

_No, he bet not. If there were other mutant freaks within Canadian Intelligence, they probably did a better job of concealing themselves than he did -_

- Logan snapped back out of the sudden, vivid memory only to gape at his own reflection in the glass. "Holy fuck," he gasped, rubbing his suddenly aching temple.

Did that actually happen? Did he rejoin the Organization … as a sleeper agent? Did that mean that government fuck hadn't told him the whole truth of his involvement with them?

Son of a bitch. Whose ass did he kick first?

* * *

The End

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